QUILL'S 
WINDOW 

GEORGE  BARR 
Mc  CUTCHEON 


J  \ 


QUILL'S  WINDOW 


'What   are  you  doing  up   here?" 

Page  68 


QUILL'S  WINDOW 


BY 

GEORGE   BARR  McCUTCHEON 

Author  of  "  Graustark,"  "  Sherry,"  "  West 
Wind  Drift,"  "  Mr.  Bingle,"  "  Nedra,"  etc. 


FRONTISPIECE  BY 

C.  ALLAN  GILBERT 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1921 


COPYBIQHT,    1921 

BY  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY,  INC. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PACE 

I  THE  FORBIDDEN  ROCK  ....          1 

II  THE  STORY  THE  OLD  MAI?  TOLD  .        .        13 

III     COURTNEY  THANE 38 

IV  DOWD'S  TAVERN      .....        50 

V  TRESPASS          .....        .        63 

VI  CHARLIE  WEBSTER  ENTERTAINS     .        .        72 

VII  COURTNEY  APPEARS  IN  PUBLIC      .        .        92 

VIII  ALIX  THE  THIRD     ....        .      104? 

IX  A  MID-OCTOBER  DAY     .        .        .        .114 

X  THE  CHIMNEY  CORNER  .         .        .        .128 

XI  THANE  VISITS  Two  HOUSES  .        .        .142 

XII  WORDS  AND  LETTERS      .        .        .        .      161 

XIII  THE  OLD  INDIAN  TRAIL        .        .        .      180 

XIV  SUSPICION 192 

XV  THE  FACE  AT  THE  WINDOW  .        .        .      205 

XVI  ROSABEL           ......      220 

XVII     SHADOWS .228 

XVIII  MR.  GILFILLAN  Is  PUZZLED  ...      241 

XIX  BRINGING  UP  THE  PAST  ....      255 

XX  THE  DISAPPEARANCE  OF  ROSABEL  VICK     267 

XXI  OUT  OF  THE  NIGHT        .        .        .        .285 

XXII  THE  THROWER  OF  STONES     .        .        .      301 

XXIII  A  MESSAGE  AND  ITS  ANSWER  .        .         .316 

XXIV  AT  QUILL'S  WINDOW       ....     329 


QUILL'S  WINDOW 


QUILL'S  WINDOW 

CHAPTER  I 

THE    FORBIDDEN    ROCK 

A  YOUNG  man  and  an  old  one  sat  in  the  shade  of 
the  willows  beside  the  wide,  still  river.  The 
glare  of  a  hot  August  sun  failed  to  penetrate 
the  shelter  in  which  they  idled;  out  upon  the  slow- 
gliding  river  it  beat  relentlessly,  creating  a  pale,  thin 
vapour  that  clung  close  to  the  shimmering  surface  and 
dazzled  the  eye  with  an  ever-shifting  glaze.  The  air 
was  lifeless,  sultry,  stifling;  not  a  leaf,  not  a  twig  in 
the  tall,  drooping  willows  moved  unless  stirred  by  the 
passage  of  some  vagrant  bird. 

The  older  man  sat  on  the  ground,  his  back  against 
the  trunk  of  a  tree  that  grew  so  near  to  the  edge  that 
it  seemed  on  the  point  of  toppling  over  to  shatter  the 
smooth,  green  mirror  below.  Some  of  its  sturdy  ex- 
posed roots  reached  down  from  the  bank  into  the  water, 
where  they  caught  and  held  the  drift  from  upstream, — 
reeds  and  twigs  and  matted  grass, — a  dirty,  sickly  mass 
that  swished  lazily  on  the  flank  of  the  slow-moving 
current. 

The  water  here  in  the  shade  was  deep  and  clear  and 
limpid,  contrasting  sharply  with  the  steel-white  surface 
out  beyond. 

The  young  man  occupied  a  decrepit  camp  stool, 
1 


2  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

placed  conveniently  against  the  trunk  of  another  tree 
hard  by.  A  discarded  bamboo  rod  lay  beside  him  on 
the  bank,  the  hook  and  line  hopelessly  tangled  in  the 
drift  below.  He  smoked  cigarettes. 

His  companion  held  a  well-chewed  black  cigar  in  the 
vise-like  corner  of  his  mouth.  His  hook  and  line  were 
far  out  in  the  placid  water,  an  ordinary  cork  serving 
as  a  "  bob  "  from  which  his  dreary,  unwavering  gaze 
seldom  shifted. 

"  I  guess  they're  through  bitin'  for  today,'*  he  re- 
marked, after  a  long  unbroken  silence. 

"  How  many  have  we  got  ?  "  inquired  the  other  lan- 
guidly. 

"  Between  us  we've  got  twenty-four.  That's  a  fair- 
sized  mess.  Sunfish  don't  make  much  of  a  showing 
unless  you  get  a  barrel  of  'em." 

"  Good  eating  though,"  mused  the  young  man. 

"  Fried  in  butter,"  supplemented  the  other.  "  What 
time  is  it?  " 

"  Half -past  nine." 

"  Well,  that's  just  about  what  I'd  figured.  I've  been 
fishin'  in  this  *  hole '  for  something  like  forty  years,  off 
and  on,  and  I've  found  out  that  these  here  sunfish  get 
through  breakfast  at  exactly  eighteen  minutes  past 
nine.  I  always  allow"about  ten  minutes'  leeway  in  case 
one  or  two  of  'em  might  have  been  out  late  the  night 
before  or  something, — but  as  a  general  thing  they're 
pretty  dog-goned  prompt  for  breakfast.  Specially  in 
August.  Even  a  fish  is  lazy  in  August.  Look  at  that 
fish-worm.  By  gosh,  it's  boiled!  That  shows  you  how 
hot  the  water  is." 

He  removed  the  worm  from  the  hook  and  slowly  be- 
gan to  twist  the  pole  in  the  more  or  less  perfunctory 


THE  FORBIDDEN  ROCK  3 

process  of  "  winding  up  "  the  line.  The  young  man 
looked  on  disinterestedly. 

"Ain't  you  going  to  untangle  that  line?"  inquired 
the  old  man,  jerking  his  thumb. 

"  What's  the  use?  The  worm  is  dead  by  this  time, 
and  God  knows  I  prefer  to  let  him  rest  in  peace.  The 
quickest  way  to  untangle  a  line  is  to  do  it  like  this." 

He  severed  it  with  his  pocket-knife. 

"  A  line  like  that  costs  twenty-five  cents,"  said  the 
old  man,  a  trace  of  dismay  in  his  voice. 

"  That's  what  it  cost  when  it  was  new,"  drawled  the 
other.  "  You  forget  it's  been  a  second-hand  article 
since  eight  o'clock  this  morning, — and  what's  a  second- 
hand fish-line  worth? — tell  me  that.  How  much  would 
you  give,  in  the  open  market,  or  at  an  auction  sale,  for 
a  second-hand  fish-line?" 

"  I  guess  we'd  better  be  gittin'  back  to  the  house," 
said  the  other,  ignoring  the  question.  "  Got  to  clean 
these  fish  if  we're  expectin*  to  have  'em  for  dinner, — or 
lunch,  as  you  fellers  call  it.  I'll  bet  your  grandfather 
never  called  it  lunch.  And  as  for  him  callin'  supper 
'dinner, — why,  by  crickey,  he  never  got  drunk  enough 
for  that." 

"  More  than  that,"  said  the  young  man  calmly,  "  he 
never  saw  a  cigarette,  or  a  telephone,  or  a  Ford,  or  a 
safety-razor, — or  a  lot  of  other  things  that  have  sprung 
up  since  he  cashed  in  his  checks.  To  be  sure,  he  did  see 
a  few  things  I've  never  seen, — such  as  clay-pipes,  canal 
boats,  horse-hair  sofas,  top-boots  and  rag-carpets, — 
and  he  probably  saw  Abraham  Lincoln, — but,  for  all 
that,  I'd  rather  be  where  I  am  today  than  where  he  is, — 
and  I'm  not  saying  he  isn't  in  heaven,  either." 

The  older  man's  eyes  twinkled.     "  I  don't  think  he's 


4  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

any  nearer  heaven  than  he  was  forty  years  ago, — and 
he's  been  dead  just  about  that  long.  He  wasn't  what 
you'd  call  a  far-seeing  man, — and  you've  got  to  look 
a  long  ways  ahead  if  you  want  to  see  heaven.  Your 
grandma's  in  heaven  all  right, — and  I'll  bet  she  was 
the  most  surprised  mortal  that  ever  got  inside  the 
pearly  gates  if  she  found  him  there  ahead  of  her.  Like 
as  not  she  would  have  backed  out,  thinking  she'd  got 
into  the  wrong  place  by  mistake.  And  if  he  is  up 
there,  I  bet  he's  making  the  place  an  everlastin'  hell 
if  or  her.  Yep,  your  grandpa  was  about  as  mean  as  they 
make  'em.  As  you  say,  he  didn't  know  anything  about 
cigarettes,  but  he  made  up  for  it  by  runnin*  after 
women  and  fast  horses, — or  maybe  it  was  hosses  and 
fast  women, — and  cheatin'  the  eye  teeth  out  of  every- 
body he  had  any  dealings  with." 

"  I  don't  understand  how  he  happened  to  die  young, 
if  all  these  things  were  true  about  him,"  said  the  other, 
lighting  a  fresh  cigarette  and  drawing  in  a  deep,  full 
breath  of  the  pungent  smoke.  The  old  man  waited  a 
few  seconds  for  the  smoke  to  be  expelled,  and  then,  as 
it  came  out  in  a  far-reaching  volume,  carrying  far  on 
the  still  air,  his  face  betrayed  not  only  relief  but 
wonder. 

"You  don't  actually  swaller  it,  do  you?"  he  in- 
quired. 

"  Certainly  not.  I  inhale,  that's  all.  Any  one  can 
'do  it." 

"  I'd  choke  to  death,"  said  the  old  man,  shifting  his 
cigar  hastily  from  one  side  of  his  mouth  to  the  other, 
and  taking  a  fresh  grip  on  it  with  his  teeth, — as  if 
fearing  the  consequences  of  a  momentary  lapse  of 
control. 


THE  FORBIDDEN  ROCK  5 

"  You've  been  chewing  that  cigar  for  nearly  two 
hours,"  observed  the  young  man.  "  I  call  that  a  filthy 
habit." 

"  I  guess  you're  right,"  agreed  the  other,  amiably. 
"  The  best  you  can  say  for  it  is  that  it's  a  man's  job, 
and  not  a  woman's,"  he  added,  with  all  the  scorn  that 
the  cigar  smoker  has  for  the  man  who  affects  nothing 
but  cigarettes. 

"  You  can't  make  me  sore  by  talking  like  that,"  said 
his  companion,  stretching  himself  lazily.  "  Approxi- 
mately ten  million  men  smoked  cigarettes  over  in 
France  for  four  years  and  more,  and  I  submit  that  they 
had  what  you  might  call  a  man's  job  on  their  hands." 

"  How  many  of  them  things  do  you  smoke  in  a  day  ?  " 

"  It  depends  entirely  on  how  early  I  get  up  in  the 
morning, — and  how  late  I  stay  up  at  night.  Good 
Lord,  it's  getting  hotter  every  minute.  For  two  cents, 
I'd  strip  and  jump  in  there  for  a  game  of  hide  and  seek 
with  the  fish.  By  the  way,  I  don't  suppose  there  are 
any  mermaids  in  these  parts,  are  there?" 

"  You  stay  out  of  that  water,"  commanded  the  old 
man.  "  You  ain't  strong  enough  yet  to  be  takin'  any 
such  chances.  You're  here  to  get  well,  and  you  got 
to  be  mighty  all-fired  careful.  The  bed  of  that  river 
is  full  of  cold  springs, — and  it's  pretty  deep  along  this 
stretch.  Weak  as  you  are, — and  as  hot  as  you  are, — 
you'd  get  cramps  in  less'n  a  minute." 

"  I  happen  to  be  a  good  swimmer." 

"  So  was  Bart  Edgecomb, — best  swimmer  I  ever  saw. 
He  could  swim  back  an'  forth  across  this  river  half  a 
dozen  times, — and  do  you  know  what  happened  to  him 
last  September?  He  drowned  in  three  foot  of  water  up 
above  the  bend,  that's  what  he  did.  Come  on.  Let's 


6  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

be  movin'.  It'll  be  hotter'n  blazes  by  eleven  o'clock, 
and  you  oughtn't  to  be  walkin'  in  the  sun." 

The  young  man  settled  himself  a  little  more  com- 
fortably against  the  tree. 

"I  think  I'll  stay  here  in  the  shade  for  a  while 
longer.  Don't  be  uneasy.  I  shan't  go  popping  into  the 
water  the  minute  your  back's  turned.  What  was  it 
you  said  early  this  morning  about  sniffing  rain  in  the 
air?  " 

"  Thunderstorms  today,  sure  as  my  name's  Brown. 
Been  threatening  rain  for  nearly  a  week.  Got  to  come 
some  time,  and  I  figure  today's —  " 

"  Threats  are  all  we  get,"  growled  the  young  man 
peevishly.  "  Lord,  I  never  dreamed  I  could  get  so 
sick  of  white  skies  and  what  you  call  fresh  air.  You 
farmers  go  to  bed  every  night  praying  for  rain,  and 
you  get  up  in  the  morning  still  praying,  and  what's 
the  result?  Nothing  except  a  whiter  sky  than  the  day 
before,  and  a  greater  shortage  of  fresh  air.  Don't 
talk  to  me  about  country  air  and  country  sunshine 
and  country  quiet.  My  God,  it  never  was  so  hot  and 
stifling  as  this  in  New  York,  and  as  for  peace  and 
quiet, — why,  those  rotten  birds  in  the  trees  around 
the  house  make  more  noise  than  the  elevated  trains 
at  the  rush  hour,  and  the  rotten  roosters  begin  crow- 
ing just  about  the  time  I'm  going  to  sleep,  and  the 
dogs  bark,  and  the  cows, — the  cows  do  whatever  cows  do 
to  make  a  noise, — and  then  the  crows  begin  to  yawp. 
And  all  night  long  the  katydids  keep  up  their  beastly 
racket,  and  the  frogs  in  the  pond  back  of  the  barns, — 
my  God,  man,  the  city  is  as  silent  as  the  grave  com- 
pared to  what  you  get  in  the  country." 

"  I  manage  to  sleep  through  it  all,"  said  the  old  man 


THE  FORBIDDEN  ROCK  7, 

drily.  "  The  frogs  and  katydids  don't  keep  me  awake.'* 
"  Yes,  and  that  reminds  me  of  another  noise  that 
makes  the  night  hideous.  It's  the  way  you  people 
sleep.  At  nine  o'clock  sharp,  every  night,  the  whole 
house  begins  to  snore,  and — Say,  I've  seen  service  in 
France,  I've  slept  in  barracks  with  scores  of  tired  sol- 
diers, I've  walked  through  camps  where  thousands  of 
able-bodied  men  were  snoring  their  heads  off, — but 
never  have  I  heard  anything  so  terrifying  as  the  racket 
that  lasts  from  nine  to  five  in  the  land  of  my  fore- 
fathers. Gad,  it  sometimes  seems  to  me  you're  all 
trying  to  make  my  forefathers  turn  over  in  their  graves 
up  there  on  the  hill." 

"  You're  kind  of  peevish  today,  ain't  you?  "  inquired 
the  other,  grinning.  "  You'll  get  used  to  the  way  we 
snore  before  long,  and  you'll  kind  of  enjoy  it.  I'd  be 
scared  to  death  if  I  got  awake  in  the  night  and  didn't 
hear  everybody  in  the  house  snoring.  It's  kind  of 
restful  to  know  that  everybody's  asleep, — and  not 
dead.  If  they  wasn't  snoring,  I'd  certainly  think  they 
was  dead." 

The  young  man  smiled.  "  I'll  say  this  much  for  you 
farmers, — you're  a  good-natured  bunch.  I  ought  to 
be  ashamed  of  myself  for  grousing.  I  suppose  it's  be- 
cause I've  been  sick.  You're  all  so  kind  and  thought- 
ful,— and  so  darned  genuine, — even  when  you're  asleep, 
— that  I  feel  like  a  dog  for  finding  fault.  By  the  way, 
you  said  something  awhile  ago  about  that  big  black 
cliff  over  yonder  having  a  history.  I've  been  looking 
at  that  cliff  or  hill  or  rock,  or  whatever  it  is,  and  it 
doesn't  look  real.  It  doesn't  look  as  though  God  had 
made  it.  It's  more  like  the  work  of  man.  So  far  as 
I  can  see,  there  isn't  another  hill  on  either  bank  of  the 


8  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

river,  and  yet  that  thing  over  there  must  be  three  or 
four  hundred  feet  high,  sticking  up  like  a  gigantic  wart 
on  the  face  of  the  earth.  What  is  it?  Solid  rock?  " 

"  Sort  like  slate  rock,  I  guess.  There's  a  stretch  of 
about  a  mile  on  both  sides  of  the  river  along  here  that's 
solid  rock.  This  bank  we're  standin*  on  is  rock,  cov- 
ered with  six  or  eight  foot  of  earth.  You're  right 
about  that  big  rock  over  there  being  a  queer  thing. 
There's  been  college  professors  and  all  sorts  of  sci- 
entific men  here,  off  and  on,  to  examine  it  and  to  try 
to  account  for  its  being  there.  But,  thunderation,  if 
it's  been  there  for  a  million  years  as  they  say,  what's 
the  sense  of  explaining  it?  " 

"  There's  something  positively  forbidding  about  it. 
Gives  you  the  willies.  How  did  it  come  by  the  name 
you  called  it  a  while  ago  ?  " 

"Quill's  Window?  Goes  back  to  the  days  of  the 
Indians.  Long  before  the  time  of  Tecumseh  or  The 
Prophet.  They  used  to  range  up  and  down  this  river 
more  than  a  hundred  years  ago.  The  old  trail  is  over 
there  on  the  other  bank  as  plain  as  day,  covered  with 
grass  but  beaten  down  till  it's  like  a  macadam  road. 
I  suppose  the  Indians  followed  that  trail  for  hundreds 
of  years.  There's  still  traces  of  their  camps  over  there 
on  that  side,  and  a  little  ways  down  the  river  is  a 
place  where  they  had  a  regular  village.  Over  here  on 
this  side,  quite  a  little  ways  farther  down,  is  the  re- 
mains of  an  old  earthwork  fort  used  by  the  French 
long  before  the  Revolution,  and  afterwards  by  Amer- 
ican soldiers  about  the  time  of  the  War  of  1812.  We'll 
go  and  look  at  it  some  day  if  you  like.  Most  people 
are  interested  in  it,  but  for  why,  I  can't  see. 

"  There  ain't  nothing  to   see  but   some   busted  up 


THE  FORBIDDEN  ROCK  9 

breastworks  and  lunettes,  covered  with  weeds,  with  here 
and  there  a  sort  of  opening  where  they  must  have  had 
a  cannon  sticking  out  to  scare  the  squaws  and  papooses. 
You  was  askin'  about  the  name  of  that  rock.  Well, 
it  originally  had  an  Indian  name,  which  I  always  for- 
get because  it's  the  easiest  way  to  keep  from  pro- 
nouncing it.  Then  the  French  came  along  and  sort 
of  Frenchified  the  name, — which  made  it  worse,  far 
as  I'm  concerned.  I'm  not  much  on  French.  About 
three-quarters  of  the  way  up  the  rock,  facing  the  river, 
is  a  sort  of  cave.  You  can't  see  the  opening  from  here, 
'cause  it  faces  north,  looking  up  the  river  from  the 
bend.  There  are  a  lot  of  little  caves  and  cracks  in 
the  rock,  but  none  of  'em  amounts  to  anything  except 
this  one.  It  runs  back  something  like  twenty  foot  in 
the  rock  and  is  about  as  high  as  a  man's  head. 

"  Shortly  after  General  Harrison  licked  The  Prophet 
and  his  warriors  up  on  the  Tippecanoe,  a  man  named 
Quill, — an  Irishman  from  down  the  river  some'eres 
towards  Vincennes, — all  this  is  hearsay  so  far  as  I'm. 
concerned,  mind  you, — but  as  I  was  saying,  this  man 
Quill  begin  to  make  his  home  up  in  that  cave.  He  was 
what  you  might  call  a  hermit.  There  were  no  white 
people  in  these  parts  except  a  few  scattered  trappers 
and  ^ome  people  living  in  a  settlement  twenty-odd  miles 
south  of  here.  As  the  story  goes,  this  man  Quill  lived 
up  there  in  that  cave  for  about  four  or  five  years, 
hunting  and  trapping  all  around  the  country.  White 
people  begin  to  get  purty  thick  in  these  parts  soon 
after  that,  Indiana  having  been  made  a  state.  There 
was  a  lot  of  coming  and  going  up  and  down  the  riven 
A  feller  named  Digby  started  a  kind  of  settlement  or 
trading-post  further  up,  and  clearings  were  made  all 


10  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

around, — farms  and  all  that,  you  see.  Your  great 
grandfather  was  one  of  the  first  men  to  settle  in  this 
section.  Coming  down  the  river  by  night  you  could 
see  the  light  up  there  in  Quill's  Cave.  You  could  see 
it  for  miles,  they  say.  People  begin  to  speak  of  it  as 
the  light  in  Quill's  window, — and  that's  how  the  name 
happened.  I'm  over  seventy,  and  I've  never  heard  that 
hill  called  anything  but  Quill's  Window." 

"What  happened  to  Quill?  " 

"  Well,  that's  something  nobody  seems  to  be  quite 
certain  about.  Whether  he  hung  himself  or  somebody 
else  done  the  job  for  him,  nobody  knows.  According 
to  the  story  that  was  told  when  I  was  a  boy,  it  seems 
he  killed  somebody  down  the  river  and  come  up  here 
to  hide.  The  relations  of  the  man  he  killed  never 
stopped  hunting  for  him.  A  good  many  people  were 
of  the  opinion  they  finally  tracked  him  to  that  cave.  la 
any  case,  his  body  was  found  hanging  by  the  neck  up 
there  one  day,  on  a  sort  of  ridge-pole  he  had  put  in. 
This  was  after  people  had  missed  seeing  the  light  in 
Quill's  Window  for  quite  a  spell.  There  are  some 
people  who  still  say  the  cave  is  ha'nted.  When  I  was 
a  young  boy,  shortly  before  the  Civil  War,  a  couple 
of  horse  thieves  were  chased  up  to  that  cave  and — 
ahem! — I  reckon  your  grandfather,  if  he  was  alive, 
could  tell  you  all  about  what  became  of  'em  and  who 
was  in  the  party  that  stood  'em  up  against  the  back 
wall  of  the  cave  and  shot  'em.  There's  another  story 
that  goes  back  even  farther  than  the  horse  thieves.  The 
skeleton  of  a  woman  was  found  up  there,  with  the  skull 
split  wide  open.  That  was  back  in  1830  or  1840.  So, 
you  see,  when  all  of  them  ghosts  get  together  and  be- 
gin scrapping  over  property  rights,  it's  enough  to  scare 


THE  FORBIDDEN  ROCK  11 

the  gizzard  out  of  'most  anybody  that  happens  to  be 
in  the  neighbourhood.  But  I  guess  old  man  Quill  was 
the  first  white  man  to  shuffle  off,  so  it's  generally  under- 
stood that  his  ghost  rules  the  roost.  Come  on  now,  let's 
be  moving.  It's  gettin'  hotter  every  minute,  and  you 
oughtn't  to  be  out  in  all  this  heat.  For  the  Lord's 
sake,  you  ain't  going  to  light  another  one  of  them 
things,  are  you?  " 

"  Sure.  It's  the  only  vice  I'm  capable  of  enjoying 
at  present.  Being  gassed  and  shell-shocked,  and  then 
having  the  flu  and  pneumonia  and  rheumatism, — and 
God  knows  what  else, — sort  of  purifies  a  chap,  you 
see." 

"  Well,  all  I  got  to  say  is— I  guess  I'd  better  not 
say  it,  after  all." 

"  You  can't  hurt  my  feelings." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  about  that,"  said  the  old  man 
gruffly. 

"  How  do  you  get  up  to  that  cave?  " 

"  You  ain't  thinking  of  trying  it,  are  you?  "  appre- 
hensively. 

"  When  I'm  a  bit  huskier,  yes." 

The  old  man  removed  his  cigar  in  order  to  obtain 
the  full  effect  of  a  triumphant  grin. 

'*  Well,  in  the  first  place,  you  can't  get  up  to  it. 
You've  got  to  come  down  to  it.  The  only  way  to  get 
to  the  mouth  of  that  cave  is  to  lower  yourself  from  the 
top  of  the  rock.  And  in  the  second  place,  you  can't 
get  down  to  it  because  it  ain't  allowed.  The  owner  of 
all  the  land  along  that  side  of  the  river  has  got  *  no 
trespass  '  signs  up,  and  nobody's  allowed  to  climb  to 
the  top  of  that  rock.  She's  all-fired  particular  about 
it,  too.  The  top  of  that  rock  is  sacred  to  her.  No- 


12  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

body  ever  thinks  of  violatin'  it.  All  around  the  bottom 
of  the  slope  back  of  the  hill  she's  got  a  white  picket 
fence,  and  the  gate  to  it  is  padlocked.  You  see  it's 
her  family  buryin'-ground." 

"Her  what?" 

"  Buryin'-ground.  Her  father  and  mother  are  bur- 
ied right  smack  on  top  of  that  rock." 

The  young  man  lifted  his  eyebrows.  "  Does  that 
mean  there  are  a  couple  of  married  ghosts  fighting  on 
top  of  the  rock  every  night,  besides  the  gang  down 
in  the—" 

"It  ain't  a  joking  matter,"  broke  in  the  other 
sharply. 

"  Go  on,  tell  me  more.  The  monstrosity  gets  more 
and  more  interesting  every  minute." 

The  old  man  chewed  his  cigar  energetically  for  a  few 
seconds  before  responding. 

"  I'll  tell  you  the  story  tonight  after  supper, — not 
now.  The  only  thing  I  want  to  make  clear  to  you  is 
this.  Everybody  in  this  section  respects  her  wishes 
about  keeping  off  of  that  rock,  and  I  want  to  ask  you 
to  respect  'em,  too.  It  would  be  a  dirty  trick  for  you 
to  go  up  there,  knowin'  it's  dead  against  her  wishes." 

"  A  dirty  trick,  eh?  "  said  the  young  man,  fixing  his 
gaze  on  the  blue-black  summit  of  the  forbidden  rock. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  STORY  THE  OLD  MAN  TOLD 

DAVID  WINDOM'S  daughter  Alix  ran  away 
with  and  married  Edward  Crown  in  the  spring 
of  1894. 

Windom  was  one  of  the  most  prosperous  farmers 
in  the  county.  His  lands  were  wide,  his  cattle  were 
many,  his  fields  were  vast  stretches  of  green  and  gold ; 
his  granaries,  his  cribs  and  his  mows,  filled  and  emptied 
each  year,  brought  riches  and  dignity  and  power  to  this 
man  of  the  soil. 

Back  when  the  state  was  young,  his  forefathers  had 
fared  westward  from  the  tide-water  reaches  of  Virginia, 
coming  at  length  to  the  rich,  unbroken  region  along 
the  river  with  the  harsh  Indian  name,  and  there  they 
built  their  cabins  and  huts  on  lands  that  had  cost  them 
little  more  than  a  song  and  yet  were  of  vast  dimensions. 
They  were  of  English  stock.  (Another  branch  of  the 
family,  closely  related,  remains  English  to  this  day,  its 
men  sitting  sometime  in  Parliament  and  always  in  the 
councils  of  the  nation,  far  removed  in  every  way  from 
the  Windoms  in  the  fertile  valley  once  traversed  by  the 
war-like  redskins.)  But  these  Windoms  of  the  valley 
were  no  longer  English.  There  had  been  six  genera- 
tions of  them,  and  those  of  the  first  two  fought  under 
General  Washington  against  the  red-coats  and  the 
Hessians  in  the  War  of  '76. 

David  Windom,  of  the  fourth  generation,  went  to 
13 


14  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

England  for  a  wife,  however, — a  girl  he  had  met  on 
the  locally  celebrated  trip  to  Europe  in  the  early  sev- 
enties. For  years  he  was  known  from  one  end  of  the 
county  to  the  other  as  "  the  man  who  has  been  across 
the  Atlantic  Ocean."  The  dauntless  English  bride  had 
come  unafraid  to  a  land  she  had  been  taught  to  regard 
as  wild,  peopled  by  savages  and  overrun  by  ravenous 
beasts,  and  she  had  found  it  populated  instead  by  the 
gentlest  sort  of  men  and  equally  gentle  beasts. 

She  did  a  great  deal  for  David  Windom.  He  was 
a  proud  man  and  ambitious.  He  saw  the  wisdom  of  her 
teachings  and  he  followed  them,  not  reluctantly  but 
with  a  fierce  desire  to  refine  what  God  had  given  him 
in  the  shape  of  raw  material:  a  good  brain,  a  sturdy 
sense  of  honour,  and  above  all  an  imagination  that  lifted 
him  safely, — if  not  always  sanely, — above  the  narrow 
world  in  which  the  farmer  of  that  day  spent  his  entire 
life.  Not  that  he  was  uncouth  to  begin  with, — far 
from  it.  He  had  been  irritatingly  fastidious  from  boy- 
hood up.  His  thoughts  had  wandered  afar  on  frequent 
journeys,  and  when  they  came  back  to  take  up  the  dull 
occupation  they  had  abandoned  temporarily,  they  were 
broader  than  when  they  went  out  to  gather  wool.  The 
strong,  well-poised  English  wife  found  rich  soil  in  which 
to  work ;  he  grew  apace  and  flourished,  and  manifold 
were  the  innovations  that  stirred  a  complacent  com- 
munity into  actual  unrest.  A  majority  of  the  farmers 
and  virtually  all  of  the  farmers'  wives  were  convinced 
that  Dave  Windom  was  losing  his  mind,  the  way  he 
was  letting  that  woman  boss  him  around. 

The  women  did  not  like  her.  She  was  not  one  of  them 
and  never  could  be  one  of  them.  Her  "  hired  girls  " 
became  "  servants  "  the  day  she  entered  the  ugly  old 


THE  STORY  THE  OLD  MAN  TOLD       15 

farmhouse  on  the  ridge.  They  were  no  longer  consid- 
ered members  of  the  family;  they  were  made  to  feel 
something  they  had  never  felt  before  in  their  lives :  that 
they  were  not  their  mistress's  equals. 

The  "  hired  girl  "  of  those  days  was  an  institution. 
As  a  rule,  she  moved  in  the  same  social  circle  as  the 
lady  of  the  house  and  it  was  customary  for  her  to  in- 
timately address  her  mistress  by  her  Christian  name. 
She  enjo3red  the  right  to  engage  in  all  conversations; 
she  was,  in  short,  "  as  good  as  anybody."  The  new 
Mrs.  Windom  was  not  long  in  transporting  the  general 
housework  "  girl  "  into  a  totally  unexampled  state  of 
astonishment.  This  "  girl," — aged  forty-five  and  a 
prominent  member  of  the  Methodist  Church, — an- 
nounced to  everybody  in  the  community  except  to  Mrs. 
Windom  herself  that  she  was  going  to  leave.  She  did 
not  leave.  The  calm  serenity  of  the  new  mistress  pre- 
vailed, even  over  the  time-honoured  independence  in 
which  the  "  girl "  and  her  kind  unconsciously  gloried. 
Respect  succeeded  injury,  and  before  the  bride  had 
been  in  the  Windom  house  a  month,  Maria  Bliss  was 
telling  the  other  "  hired  girls  "  of  the  neighbourhood 
that  she  wouldn't  trade  places  with  them  for  anything 
in  the  world. 

Greatly  to  the  consternation  and  disgust  of  other 
householders,  a  "  second  girl  "  was  added  to  the  Win- 
dom menage, — a  parlour-maid  she  was  called.  This  was 
too  much.  It  was  rank  injustice.  General  housework 
girls  began  to  complain  of  having  too  much  work  to 
do, — getting  up  at  five  in  the  morning,  cooking  for 
half  a  dozen  "  hands,"  doing  all  the  washing  and  iron- 
ing, milking,  sweeping  and  so  on,  and  not  getting  to  bed 
till  nine  or  ten  o'clock  at  night, — to  say  nothing  of 


16  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

family  dinners  on  Sunday  and  the  preacher  in  every 
now  and  then,  and  all  that.  Moreover,  Mrs.  Windom 
herself  never  looked  bedraggled.  She  took  care  of  her 
hair,  wore  good  clothes,  went  to  the  dentist  regularly 
(whether  she  had  a  toothache  or  not),  had  meals  served 
in  what  Maria  Bliss  loftily  described  as  "  courses,'* 
and  saw  to  it  that  David  Windora  shaved  once  a  day, 
dressed  better  than  his  neighbours,  kept  his  "  surrey  " 
and  "  side-bar  buggy  "  washed,  his  harness  oiled  and 
polished,  and  wore  real  riding-boots. 

The  barnyard  took  on  an  orderly  appearance,  the 
stables  were  repaired,  the  picket  fences  gleamed  white 
in  the  sun,  the  roof  of  the  house  was  painted  red,  the 
sides  a  shimmering  white,  and  there  were  green  window 
shutters  and  green  window  boxes  filled  with  geraniums. 
The  front  yard  was  kept  mowed,  and  there  were  great 
flower-beds  encircled  by  snow-white  boulders;  a  ham- 
mock was  swung  in  the  shade  of  two  great  oaks,  and 
— worst  of  all!  a  tennis-court  was  laid  out  alongside 
the  house. 

Tennis  !  That  was  a  game  played  only  by  "  dudes  " ! 
Passers-by  looked  with  scorn  upon  young  David  Win- 
idom  and  his  flaxen-haired  wife  as  they  played  at  the 
silly  game  before  supper  every  evening.  And  they 
went  frequently  to  the  "  opera  house  "  at  the  county 
seat,  ten  miles  up  the  river;  they  did  not  wait  for  sum- 
mer to  come  with  its  circus,  as  all  the  other  farmers 
were  content  to  do ;  whenever  there  was  a  good  "  show  " 
at  the  theatre  in  town  they  sent  up  for  reserved  seats 
and  drove  in  for  supper  at  the  principal  hotel.  Alto- 
gether, young  Mrs.  Windom  was  simply  "  raising 
Cain  "  with  the  conventions. 

Strange  to  say,  David  did  not  '*  go  to  smash."     To 


THE  STORY  THE  OLD  MAN  TOLD       17 

the  intense  chagrin  of  the  wiseacres  he  prospered  de- 
spite an  unprecedented  disregard  for  the  teachings  of 
his  father  and  his  grandfather  before  him.  The  wolf 
stayed  a  long  way  off  from  his  door,  the  prophetic 
mortgage  failed  to  lay  its  blight  upon  his  lands,  his 
crops  were  bountiful,  his  acreage  spread  as  the  years 
went  by, — and  so  his  uncles,  his  cousins  and  his  aunts 
were  never  so  happy  as  when  wishing  for  the  good  old 
idays  when  his  father  was  alive  and  running  the  farm 
as  it  should  be  run !  If  David  had  married  some  good, 
sensible,  thrifty,  hard-working  farmer's  daughter, — 
Well,  it  might  not  have  meant  an  improvement  in  the 
crops  but  it  certainly  would  have  spared  him  the  ex- 
pense of  a  tennis  court,  and  theatre-going,  and  abso- 
lutely unnecessary  trips  to  Chicago  or  Indianapolis 
whenever  she  took  it  into  her  head  to  go.  Besides,  it 
wasn't  natural  that  they  should  deliberately  put  off 
having  children.  It  wasn't  what  God  and  the  country 
expected.  After  a  year  had  passed  and  there  were 
no  symptoms  of  approaching  motherhood,  certain 
narrow-minded  relatives  began  to  blame  Great  Britain 
for  the  outrage  and  talked  a  great  deal  about  a  worn- 
out,  deteriorating  race. 

Then,  after  two  years,  when  a  girl  baby  was  born 
to  David  and  his  wife,  they  couldn't,  for  the  life  of 
them,  understand  how  it  came  to  pass  that  it  wasn't 
a  boy.  There  had  been  nothing  but  boys  in  the  Windom 
family  for  years  and  years.  It  appeared  to  be  a  Win- 
dom custom.  And  here  was  this  fair-haired  outsider 
from  across  the  sea  breaking  in  with  a  girl!  They 
could  not  believe  it  possible.  David, — a  great,  strong, 
perfect  specimen  of  a  Windom, — the  father  of  a  girl! 
Why,  they  emphasized,  he  was  over  six  feet  tall,  strong 


18  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

as  an  ox,  broad-shouldered, — as  fine  a  figure  as  you 
would  see  in  a  lifetime.  There  was  something  wrong, — 
radically  wrong. 

The  district  suffered  another  shock  when  a  nurse 
maid  was  added  to  David's  household, — a  girl  from 
the  city  who  had  nothing  whatever  to  do,  except  to  take 
care  of  the  baby  while  the  unnatural  mother  tinkered 
with  the  flower-beds,  took  long  walks  about  the  farm, 
rode  horseback,  and  played  tennis  with  David  and  a 
silly  crowd  of  young  people  who  had  fallen  into  evil 
ways. 

She  died  when  her  daughter  was  ten  years  old.  Those 
who  had  misunderstood  her  and  criticized  her  in  the 
beginning,  mourned  her  deeply,  sincerely,  earnestly  in 
the  end,  for  she  had  triumphed  over  prejudice,  narrow- 
mindedness,  and  a  certain  form  of  malice.  The  whole 
district  was  the  better  for  her  once  hateful  innovations, 
and  there  was  no  one  left  who  scoffed  at  David  Windom 
for  the  choice  he  had  made  of  a  wife. 

Her  death  wrought  a  remarkable,  enduring  change 
in  Windom.  He  became  a  silent,  brooding  man  who 
rarely  smiled  and  \€iose  heart  lay  up  in  the  little  grave- 
yard on  the  ridge.  The  gay,  larksome  light  fled  from 
his  eyes,  his  face  grew  stern  and  sometimes  forbidding. 
She  had  taken  with  her  the  one  great  thing  she  had 
brought  into  his  life :  ineffable  buoyancy.  He  no  longer 
played,  for  there  was  no  one  with  whom  he  would  play ; 
he  no  longer  sang,  for  the  music  had  gone  out  of  his 
soul;  he  no  longer  whistled  the  merry  tunes,  for  his 
lips  were  stiff  and  unyielding.  Only  when  he  looked 
upon  his  little  daughter  did  the  soft  light  of  love  well 
up  into  his  eyes  and  the  rigid  mouth  grow  tender. 

She  was  like  her  mother.     She  was  joyous,  brave  and 


THE  STORY  THE  OLD  MAN  TOLD       19 

fair  to  look  upon.  She  had  the  same  heart  of  sunshine, 
the  same  heart  of  iron,  and  the  blue  in  her  eyes  was  like 
the  blue  of  the  darkening  skies.  She  adored  the  grim, 
silent  man  who  was  her  father,  and  she  was  the  breath 
of  life  to  him. 

And  then,  when  she  was  nineteen,  she  broke  the  heart 
of  David  Windom.  For  two  years  she  had  been  a  stu- 
dent in  the  University  situated  but  half  a  score  of  miles 
from  the  place  where  she  was  born,  a  co-educational 
institution  of  considerable  size  and  importance.  Win- 
dom did  not  believe  in  women's  colleges.  He  believed  in 
the  free  school  with  its  broadening  influence,  its  com- 
mingling of  the  sexes  in  the  search  for  learning,  and 
in  the  divine  right  of  woman  to  develop  her  mind 
through  the  channels  that  lead  ultimately  and  inevi- 
tably to  superiority  of  man.  He  believed  that  the  girl 
trained  and  educated  in  schools  devoted  exclusively  to 
the  finer  sex  fails  to  achieve  understanding  as  well  as 
education.  The  only  way  to  give  a  girl  a  practical 
education, — and  he  believed  that  every  woman  should 
have  one, — was  to  start  her  off  even  with  the  boy  who 
was  training  to  become  her  master  in  all  respects. 

During  her  second  year  at  the  University  she  met 
Edward  Crown,  a  senior.  He  was  the  son  of  a  black- 
smith in  the  city,  and  he  was  working  his  way  through 
college  with  small  assistance  from  his  parent,  who  held 
to  the  conviction  that  a  man  was  far  better  off  if  he 
developed  his  muscles  by  hard  work  and  allowed  the 
brain  to  take  care  of  itself.  Young  Crown  was  a  good- 
looking  fellow  of  twenty-three,  clean-minded,  ambitious, 
dogged  in  work  and  dogged  in  play.  He  had  "  made  " 
the  football  team  in  his  sophomore  year.  Customary 
snobbishness  had  kept  him  out  of  the  fraternities  and 


20  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

college  societies.  He  may  have  been  a  good  fellow,  a 
fine  student,  and  a  cracking  end  on  the  eleven,  and  all 
that,  but  he  was  not  acceptable  material  for  any  one 
of  the  half  dozen  fraternities. 

When  he  left  college  with  his  hard-earned  degree  it 
was  to  accept  a  position  with  a  big  engineering  com- 
pany, a  job  which  called  him  out  to  the  far  North- 
west. Alix  Windom  was  his  promised  wife.  They  were 
deeply,  madly  in  love  with  each  other.  Separation 
seemed  unendurable.  She  was  willing  to  go  into  the 
wilderness  with  him,  willing  to  endure  the  hardships  and 
the  discomforts  of  life  in  a  construction  camp  up  in  the 
mountains  of  Montana.  She  would  share  his  poverty 
and  his  trials  as  she  would  later  share  his  triumphs. 
But  when  they  went  to  David  Windom  with  their  beau- 
tiful dream,  the  world  fell  about  their  ears. 

David  Windom,  recovering  from  the  shock  of  sur- 
prise, ordered  Edward  from  the  house.  He  would 
sooner  see  his  child  dead  than  the  wife  of  Nick  Crown's 
son, — Nick  Crown,  a  drunken  rascal  who  had  been 
known  to  beat  his  wife, — Nick  Crown  who  was  not  even 
fit  to  lick  the  feet  of  the  horses  he  shod ! 

One  dark,  rainy  night  in  late  June,  Alix  stole  out  of 
the  old  farmhouse  on  the  ridge  and  met  her  lover  at  the 
abandoned  tollgate  half  a  mile  up  the  road.  He  waited 
there  with  a  buggy  and  a  fast  team  of  horses.  Out  of 
a  ramshackle  cupboard  built  in  the  wall  of  the  toll- 
house, they  withdrew  the  bundles  surreptitiously  placed 
there  by  Alix  in  anticipation  of  this  great  and  daring; 
event,  and  made  off  toward  the  city  at  a  break-neck, 
reckless  speed.  They  were  married  before  midnight, 
and  the  next  day  saw  them  on  their  way  to  the  Far 
[West.  But  not  before  Alix  had  despatched  a  messen- 


THE  STORY  THE  OLD  MAN  TOLD       21 

ger  to  her  father,  telling  him  of  her  act  and  asking 
his  forgiveness  for  the  sake  of  the  love  she  bore  him. 
The  same  courier  carried  back  to  the  city  a  brief  re- 
sponse from  David  Windom.  In  a  shaken,  sprawling 
hand  he  informed  her  that  if  she  ever  decided  to  return 
to  her  home  alone,  he  would  receive  her  and  forgive  her 
for  the  sake  of  the  love  he  bore  her,  but  if  she  came 
with  the  coward  who  stole  her  away  from  him,  he  would 
kill  him  before  her  eyes. 


II 

The  summer  and  fall  and  part  of  the  winter  passed, 
and  in  early  March  Alix  came  home. 

David  Windom,  then  a  man  of  fifty,  gaunt  and  grey 
and  powerful,  seldom  had  left  the  farm  in  all  these 
months.  He  rode  about  his  far-spread  estate,  grim 
and  silent,  his  eyes  clouded,  his  voice  almost  metallic, 
his  manner  cold  and  repellent.  His  tenants,  his  la- 
bourers, his  neighbours,  fearing  him,  rarely  broke  in 
upon  his  reserve.  Only  his  animals  loved  him  and  were 
glad  to  see  him, — his  dogs,  his  horses,  even  his  cattle. 
He  loved  them,  for  they  were  staunch  and  faithful. 
Never  had  he  uttered  his  daughter's  name  in  all  these 
months,  nor  was  there  a  soul  in  the  community  pos- 
sessed of  the  hardihood  to  inquire  about  her  or  to  sym- 
pathize with  him. 

It  was  a  fierce,  cruel  night  in  March  that  saw  the 
return  of  Alix.  A  fine,  biting  snow  blew  across  the 
wide,  open  farmlands ;  the  beasts  of  the  field  were 
snugly  under  cover;  no  man  stirred  abroad  unless 
driven  by  necessity;  the  cold,  wind-swept  roads  were 
'deserted.  So  no  one  witnessed  the  return  of  Alix  Crown 


22  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

and  her  husband.  They  came  out  of  the  bleak,  un- 
friendly night  and  knocked  at  David  Windom's  door. 
There  were  lights  in  his  sitting-room  windows ;  through 
them  they  could  see  the  logs  blazing  in  the  big  fireplace, 
beside  which  sat  the  lonely,  brooding  figure  of  Alix's 
father.  It  was  late, — nearly  midnight, — and  the  house 
was  still.  Old  Maria  Bliss  and  the  one  other  servant 
had  been  in  bed  for  hours.  The  farmhands  slept  in  a 
cottage  Windom  had  erected  years  before,  acting  upon 
his  wife's  suggestion.  It  stood  some  two  or  three  hun- 
dred yards  from  the  main  house. 

A  dog  in  the  stables  barked,  first  in  anger  and  then 
with  unmistakable  joy.  David's  favourite,  a  big  collie, 
sprang  up  from  his  place  on  the  rug  before  the  fire  and 
looked  uneasily  toward  the  door  opening  onto  the  hall. 
Then  came  a  rapping  at  the  front  door.  The  collie 
growled  softly  as  he  moved  toward  the  door.  He 
sniffed  the  air  in  the  hall  and  suddenly  began  to  whine 
joyously,  wagging  his  tail  as  he  bounded  back  and  forth 
between  his  master  and  the  door. 

David  Windom  knew  then  that  his  daughter  had  come 
home. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  took  two  long  strides 
toward  the  door.  Abruptly,  as  if  suddenly  turned  to 
stone,  he  stopped.  For  a  long  time  he  stood  immovable 
in  the  middle  of  the  room.  The  rapping  was  repeated, 
louder,  heavier  than  before.  He  turned  slowly,  retraced 
his  steps  to  the  fireplace  and  took  from  its  rack  in  the 
corner  a  great  iron  poker.  His  face  was  ashen  grey, 
his  eyes  were  wide  and  staring  and  terrible.  Then  he 
strode  toward  the  door,  absolutely  unconscious  of  the 
glad,  prancing  dog  at  his  side. 

In  the  poor  shelter  of  the  little  porch  stood  Alix,  bent 


THE  STORY  THE  OLD  MAN  TOLD       23 

and  shivering,  and,  behind  her,  Edward  Crown,  at  whose 
feet  rested  two  huge  "  telescope  satchels."  The  light 
from  within  fell  dimly  upon  the  white,  upturned  face 
of  the  girl.  She  held  out  her  hands  to  the  man  who 
towered  above  her  on  the  doorstep. 

"Daddy!  Daddy!"  she  cried  brokenly.  "Oh,  my 
daddy !  Let  me  come  in — let  me, — I — I  am  freezing." 

But  David  Windom  was  peering  over  her  head  at  the 
indistinct  face  of  the  man  beyond.  He  wanted  to  be 
sure.  Lifting  his  powerful  arm,  he  struck. 

Edward  Crown,  stiff  and  numb  with  cold  and  weak 
from  an  illness  of  some  duration,  did  not  raise  an  arm 
to  ward  off  the  blow,  nor  was  he  even  prepared  to 
dodge.  The  iron  rod  crashed  down  upon  his  head.  His 
legs  crumpled  up ;  he  dropped  in  a  heap  at  the  top  of 
the  steps  and  rolled  heavily  to  the  bottom,  sprawling 
out  on  the  snow-covered  brick  walk. 

The  long  night  wore  on.  Windom  had  carried  his 
daughter  into  the  sitting-room,  where  he  placed  her  on 
a  lounge  drawn  up  before  the  fire.  She  had  fainted. 
After  an  hour  he  left  her  and  went  out  into  the  night. 
The  body  of  Edward  Crown  was  lying  where  it  had 
fallen.  It  was  covered  by  a  thin  blanket  of  snow.  For 
a  long  time  he  stood  gazing  down  upon  the  lifeless 
shape.  The  snow  cut  his  face,  the  wind  threshed  about 
his  coatless  figure,  but  he  heeded  them  not.  He  was 
muttering  to  himself.  At  last  he  turned  to  re-enter 
the  house.  His  daughter  was  standing  in  the  open 
doorway. 

"Is — is  that  Edward  down  there?"  she  asked,  in 
weak,  lifeless  tones.  She  seemed  dull,  witless,  utterly 
without  realization. 

"  Go  back  in  the  house,"  he  whispered,  as  -he  drew 


24>  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

back  from  her  in  a  sort  of  horror, — horror  that  had 
not  struck  him  in  the  presence  of  the  dead. 

"  Is  that  Edward?  "  she  insisted,  her  voice  rising  to 
a  queer,  monotonous  wail. 

"  I  told  you  to  stay  in  the  house,"  he  said.  "  I  told 
you  I  would  look  after  him,  didn't  I  ?  Go  back,  Alix, — 
that's  a  good  girl.  Your — your  daddy  will —  Oh,  my 
God!  Don't  look  at  me  like  that! " 

"  Is  he  dead? "  she  whispered,  still  standing  very 
straight  in  the  middle  of  the  doorway.  She  was  not 
looking  at  the  inert  thing  on  the  walk  below,  but  into- 
her  father's  eyes.  He  did  not,  could  not  answer.  He 
seemed  frozen  stiff.  She  went  on  in  the  same  dull, 
whispered  monotone.  "  I  begged  him  to  let  me  come 
alone.  I  begged  him  to  let  me  see  you  first.  But  he 
would  come.  He  brought  me  all  the  way  from  the  West 
and  he— ^he  was  not  afraid  of  you.  You  have  done  what 
you  said  you  would  do.  You  did  not  give  him  a 
chance.  And  always, — always  I  have  loved  you  so. 
You  will  never  know  how  I  longed  to  come  back  and 
have  you  kiss  me,  and  pet  me,  and  call  me  those  silly 
names  you  used —  " 

"  What's  done,  is  done,"  he  broke  in  heavily.  "  He 
is  dead.  It  had  to  be.  I  was  insane, — mad  with  all 
these  months  of  hatred.  It  is  done.  Come, — there  is 
nothing  you  can  do.  Come  back  into  the  house.  I  will 
carry  him  in — and  wake  somebody.  Tomorrow  they 
will  come  and  take  me  away.  They  will  hang  me.  I 
am  ready.  Let  them  come.  You  must  not  stand  there 
in  the  cold,  my  child." 

She  toppled  forward  into  his  arms,  and  he  lifted  her 
as  if  she  were  a  babe  and  carried  her  into  the  house. 
The  collie  was  whining  in  the  corner.  Windom  sat 


THE  STORY  THE  OLD  MAN  TOLD       25 

down  in  the  big  armchair  before  the  fire,  still  holding 
the  girl  in  his  arms.  She  was  moaning  weakly.  Sud- 
denly a  great,  overwhelming  fear  seized  him, — the  fear 
of  being  hanged ! 

A  long  time  afterward, — it  was  after  two, — he  arose 
from  his  knees  beside  the  lounge  and  prepared  to  go 
out  into  the  night  once  more.  Alix  had  promised  not 
to  send  her  father  to  the  gallows.  She  was  almost  in 
a  stupor  after  the  complete  physical  and  mental  col- 
lapse, but  she  knew  what  she  was  doing,  she  realized 
what  she  was  promising  in  return  for  the  blow  that  had 
robbed  her  of  the  man  she  loved. 

No  one  will  ever  know  just  what  took  place  in  that 
darkened  sitting-room,  for  the  story  as  afterwards  re- 
lated was  significantly  lacking  in  details.  The  light  had 
been  extinguished  and  the  doors  silently  closed  by  the 
slayer.  The  stiffening  body  of  Edward  Crown  out  in 
the  snow  was  not  more  silent  than  the  interior  of  the 
old  farmhouse,  apart  from  the  room  in  which  David 
Windom  pleaded  with  his  stricken  daughter. 

And  all  the  while  he  was  begging  her  to  save  him 
from  the  .consequences  of  his  crime,  his  brain  was 
searching  for  the  means  to  dispose  of  the  body  of  Ed- 
ward Crown  and  to  provide  an  explanation  for  the  re- 
turn of  Alix  without  her  husband. 

Circumstances  favoured  him  in  a  surprising  manner. 
Young  Crown  and  his  wife  had  travelled  down  from 
Chicago  in  a  day  coach,  and  they  had  left  the  train  at 
a  small  way  station  some  five  miles  west  of  the  Windom 
farm.  Crown  was  penniless.  He  did  not  possess  the 
means  to  engage  a  vehicle  to  transport  them  from  the 
city  to  the  farm,  nor  the  money  to  secure  lodging  for 
the  night  in  the  cheapest  hotel.  Alix's  pride  stood  in 


26  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

the  way  of  an  appeal  to  her  husband's  father  or  to  any 
one  of  his  friends  for  assistance.  It  was  she  who  in- 
sisted that  they  leave  the  train  at  Hawkins  station  and 
walk  to  Windom's  house.  They  had  encountered  no 
one  who  knew  them,  either  on  the  train  or  at  the  sta- 
tion; while  on  their  cold,  tortuous  journey  along  the 
dark  highway  they  did  not  meet  a  solitary  human 
being. 

No  one,  therefore,  was  aware  of  their  return. 

Edward  Crown's  presence  in  the  neighbourhood  was 
unknown.  If  David  Windom's  plan  succeeded,  the  fact 
that  Crown  had  returned  with  his  wife  never  would  be 
known.  To  all  inquirers  both  he  and  his  daughter  were 
to  return  the  flat  but  evasive  answer :  "  It  is  something 
I  cannot  discuss  at  present,"  leaving  the  world  to  ar- 
rive at  the  obvious  conclusion  that  Alix's  husband  had 
abandoned  her.  And  presently  people,  from  sheer  deli- 
cacy, would  cease  to  inquire.  No  one  would  know  that 
Crown  had  been  ill  up  in  the  mountains  for  weeks,  had 
lost  his  position,  and  had  spent  his  last  penny  in  get- 
ting his  wife  back  to  the  house  in  which  she  was  bora, — 
and  where  her  own  child  was  soon  to  be  born. 

Windom  went  about  the  task  of  secreting  his  son- 
in-law's  body  in  a  most  systematic,  careful  manner.  He 
first  carried  the  two  "  telescopes  "  into  the  house  and 
hid  them  in  a  closet.  Then  he  put  on  an  old  overcoat 
and  cap,  his  riding  boots  and  gloves.  Stealing  out  to 
the  rear  of  the  house,  he  found  a  lantern  and  secured  it 
to  his  person  by  means  of  a  strap.  A  few  minutes  later 
he  was  ready  to  start  off  on  his  ghastly  mission.  Alix 
nodded  her  head  dumbly  when  he  commanded  her  to 
remain  in  the  sitting-room  and  to  make  no  sound  that 


THE  STORY  THE  OLD  MAN  TOLD      27 

might  arouse  Maria  Bliss.  He  promised  to  return  in 
less  than  an  hour. 

"  Your  father's  life  depends  on  your  silence,  my 
child,  from  this  moment  on,"  he  whispered  in  her  ear. 

She  started  up.  "  And  how  about  my  husband's 
life?  "  she  moaned.  "  What  of  him?  Why  do  you  put 
yourself —  " 

"  Sh !  Your  husband  is  dead.  You  cannot  bring  him 
to  life.  It  is  your  duty, — do  your  hear? — your  duty  to 
spare  the  living.  Remember  what  I  said  to  you  awhile 
ago.  Never  forget  it,  my  child." 

"  Yes,"  she  muttered.  "  '  Blood  is  thicker  than 
water.'  I  remember." 

Ill 

He  went  out  into  the  night,  closing  the  door  softly 
behind  him.  The  collie  was  at  his  heels.  He  was  afraid 
to  go  alone.  Grimly,  resolutely  he  lifted  the  body  of 
Edward  Crown  from  the  ground  and  slung  it  across  his 
shoulder,  the  head  and  arms  hanging  down  his  back. 
Desperation  added  strength  to  his  powerful  frame.  As 
if  his  burden  were  a  sack  of  meal,  he  strode  swiftly  down 
the  walk,  through  the  gate  and  across  the  gravel  road. 
The  night  was  as  black  as  ink,  yet  he  went  unerringly 
to  the  pasture  gate  a  few  rods  down  the  road.  Un- 
latching it,  he  passed  through  and  struck  out  across 
the  open,  wind-swept  meadow.  The  dog  slunk  along 
close  behind  him,  growling  softly.  Snow  was  still  fall- 
ing, but  the  gale  from  the  north  was  sweeping  it  into 
drifts,  obliterating  his  tracks  almost  as  soon  as  they 
were  made. 

Straight  ahead  lay  the  towering,  invisible  rock,   a 


28  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

quarter  of  a  mile  away.  He  descended  the  ridge  slope, 
swung  tirelessly  across  the  swales  and  mounds  in  the 
little  valley,  and  then  bent  his  back  to  the  climb  up  the 
steep  incline  to  Quill's  Window.  Picking  his  way 
through  a  fringe  of  trees,  he  came  to  the  tortuous  path 
that  led  to  the  crest  of  the  great  rock.  Panting, 
dogged,  straining  every  ounce  of  his  prodigious 
strength,  he  struggled  upward,  afraid  to  stop  for  rest, 
afraid  to  lower  his  burden.  The  sides  and  the  flat  sum- 
mit of  the  rock  were  full  of  treacherous  fissures,  but  he 
knew  them  well.  He  had  climbed  the  sides  of  Quill's 
Window  scores  of  times  as  a  boy,  to  sit  at  the  top  and 
gaze  off  over  the  small  world  below,  there  to  dream  of 
the  great  world  outside,  and  of  love,  adventure,  travel. 
Many  a  night,  after  the  death  of  his  beloved  Alix,  he 
had  gone  up  there  to  mourn  alone,  to  be  nearer  to  the 
heaven  which  she  had  entered,  to  be  closer  to  her.  He 
knew  well  of  the  narrow  fissure  at  the  top, — six  feet 
deep  and  the  length  of  a  grave !  Filled  only  with  the 
leaves  of  long  dead  years ! 

He  lowered  his  burden  to  the  bare  surface  of  the 
rock.  The  wind  had  swept  it  clean.  Under  the  pro- 
tecting screen  of  his  overcoat  he  struck  a  match  and 
lighted  the  lantern.  Then  for  the  first  time  he  studied 
closely  the  grey,  still  face  of  the  youth  he  had  slain. 
The  skull  was  crushed.  There  was  frozen  blood  down 
the  back  of  the  head  and  neck —  He  started  up  in 
sudden  consternation.  There  would  be  blood-stains 
where  the  body  had  lain  so  long, — tell-tale,  convicting 
stains  !  He  must  be  swift  with  the  work  in  hand.  Those 
stains  must  be  wiped  out  before  the  break  of  day. 

Lowering  himself  into  the  opening,  he  began  digging 
at  one  end  with  his  hands,  scooping  back  quantities  of 


THE  STORY  THE  OLD  MAN  TOLD       29 

wet  leaves.  There  was  snow  down  there  in  the  pit, — a 
foot  or  more  of  it.  After  a  few  minutes  of  vigorous 
clawing,  a  hole  in  the  side  of  the  fissure  was  revealed, — 
an  aperture  large  enough  for  a  man  to  crawl  into.  He 
knew  where  it  led  to:  down  into  Quill's  cave  twenty 
feet  below. 

Some  one, — perhaps  an  Indian  long  before  the  time 
of  Quill,  or  it  may  have  been  Quill  himself, — had  chis- 
elled hand  and  toe  niches  in  the  sides  of  this  well  and 
had  used  the  strange  shaft  as  means  of  getting  into  and 
out  of  the  cave.  Windom's  father  had  closed  this  shaft 
when  David  was  a  small  boy,  after  the  venturesome 
youngster  had  gone  down  into  the  cave  and,  unable  to 
climb  out  again,  had  been  the  cause  of  an  all-day  search 
by  his  distracted  parent  and  every  neighbour  for  miles 
around.  The  elder  Windom  had  blocked  the  bottom  of 
the  hole  with  a  huge  boulder,  shorn  from  the  side  of  the 
cave  by  some  remote  wrench  of  nature.  Then  he  had 
half  filled  the  cavity  from  the  top  by  casting  in  all  of 
the  loose  stones  to  be  found  on  the  crest  of  the  rock, 
together  with  a  quantity  of  earth.  The  work  had  never 
been  completed.  There  still  remained  a  hole  some  ten 
feet  deep. 

David  Windom  clambered  out,  leaving  his  lantern 
below.  Letting  the  dead  man's  body  slide  into  the 
crevice,  he  followed,  bent  on  at  least  partially  finishing 
the  job.  When  he  climbed  out  a  second  time,  Edward 
Crown  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  hole  and  the  wet,  foul 
leaves  again  hid  the  opening.  Tomorrow  night,  and 
the  night  after,  he  would  come  again  to  close  the  hole 
entirely  with  earth  and  stones,  hiding  forever  the  grew- 
some  thing  in  Quill's  "  chimney,"  as  the  flue-like  pas- 
sage was  called. 


30  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

Extinguishing  the  lantern,  he  started  down  the  hill 
at  a  reckless,  break-neck  speed.  He  had  the  uncanny 
feeling  that  he  was  being  followed,  that  Edward  Crown 
was  dogging  his  footsteps.  Halfway  down,  he  stum- 
bled and  fell  sprawling.  As  he  started  to  rise,  a  sound 
smote  his  ears — the  sound  of  footsteps.  For  many 
seconds  he  held  his  breath,  terror  clutching  his  throat. 
He  was  being  followed !  Some  one  was  shuffling  down 
the  rock  behind  him.  The  collie !  He  had  forgotten  the 
dog.  But  even  as  he  drew  in  the  deep  breath  of  relief, 
he  felt  his  blood  suddenly  freeze  in  his  veins.  It  was 
not  the  dog.  Something  approached  that  moaned  and 
whimpered  and  was  not  mortal.  It  passed  by  him  as 
he  crouched  to  the  earth, — a  shadow  blacker  than  the 
night  itself.  Suddenly  the  truth  burst  upon  him. 

"My  God!    Alix!" 

Half  an  hour  later  he  staggered  into  his  house,  bear- 
ing the  form  of  his  daughter, — tenderly,  carefully,  not 
as  he  had  borne  the  despised  dead. 

She  had  followed  him  to  the  top  of  Quill's  Window, 
she  had  witnessed  the  ghastly  interment,  and  she  had 
whispered  a  prayer  for  the  boy  who  was  gone. 

The  next  day  her  baby  was  born  and  that  night  she 
died.  Coming  out  of  a  stupor  just  before  death  claimed 
her,  she  said  to  David  Windom : 

"  I  am  going  to  Edward.  I  do  not  forgive  you, 
father.  You  must  not  ask  that  of  me.  You  say  it  is 
my  duty  to  save  you  from  the  gallows, — a  child's  duty 
to  her  parent.  I  have  promised.  I  shall  keep  my 
promise.  It  is  not  in  my  heart  to  send  you  to  the 
gallows.  You  are  my  father.  You  have  always  loved 
me.  This  is  my  baby, — mine  and  Edward's.  She  may 
> — God  knows  I  wish  I  might  have  died  yesterday 


THE  STORY  THE  OLD  MAN  TOLD      3l 

and  spared  her  the  accursed  breath  of  life, — she  may 
grow  up  to  be  a  woman,  just  as  I  grew  up.  I  do  not 
ask  much  of  you  in  return  for  what  I  have  done  for 
you,  father.  You  have  killed  my  Edward.  I  loved  him 
with  all  my  soul.  I  do  not  care  to  live.  But  my  child 
must  go  on  living,  I  suppose.  My  child  and  his.  She 
is  his  daughter.  I  cannot  expect  you  to  love  her,  but  I 
do  expect  you  to  take  care  of  her.  You  say  that  blood 
is  thicker  than  water.  You  are  right.  I  cannot  find  it 
in  my  heart  to  betray  you.  You  may  tell  the  world 
whatever  story  you  like  about  Edward.  He  is  dead, 
and  I  shall  soon  be  dead.  You  can  hurt  neither  of  us, 
no  matter  what  you  do.  I  ask  two  things  of  you.  One 
is  that  you  will  be  good  to  my  baby  as  long  as  you  may 
live,  and  the  other  is  that  you  will  bury  me  up  there 
where  you  put  Edward  last  night.  I  must  lie  near  him 
always.  Say  to  people  that  I  have  asked  you  to  bury 
me  in  that  pit  at  the  top  of  Quill's  Window, — that  it 
was  my  whim,  if  you  like.  Close  it  up  after  you  have 
placed  me  there  and  cover  it  with  great  rocks,  so  that 
Edward  and  I  may  never  be  disturbed.  I  want  no 
headstone,  no  epitaph.  Just  the  stones  as  they  were 
hewn  by  God." 

David  Windom  promised.    He  was  alone  in  the  room 
with  her  when  she  died. 


IV 

Twenty  years  passed.  Windom  came  at  last  to  the 
end  of  his  days.  He  had  fulfilled  his  promises  to  Alix. 
He  had  taken  good  care  of  her  daughter,  he  had  given 
her  everything  in  his  power  to  give,  and  he  had  wor- 
shipped her  because  she  was  like  both  of  the  Alixes 


32  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

he  had  loved.  She  was  Alix  Crown, — Alix  the  Third, 
he  called  her. 

On  the  day  of  his  death,  Windom  confessed  the  crime 
of  that  far  off  night  in  March.  In  the  presence  of 
his  lawyer,  his  doctor,  his  granddaughter  and  the  prose- 
cuting attorney  of  the  county,  he  revealed  the  secret  he 
had  kept  for  a  score  of  years.  The  mystery  of  Edward 
Crown's  disappearance  was  cleared  up,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  her  young  life  Alix  was  shorn  of  the  romantic 
notion  that  one  day  her  missing  father  would  appear 
in  the  flesh,  out  of  the  silences,  to  claim  her  as  his  own. 
From  earliest  childhood,  her  imagination  had  dealt  with 
all  manner  of  dramatic  situations ;  she  had  existed  in 
the  glamour  of  uncertainty ;  she  had  looked  upon  her- 
self as  a  character  worthy  of  a  place  in  some  grip- 
ping tale  of  romance.  The  mound  of  rocks  on  the  crest 
of  Quill's  Window,  surrounded  by  a  tall  iron  paling 
fence  with  its  padlocked  gate,  covered  only  the  body 
of  the  mother  she  had  never  seen.  She  did  not  know 
until  this  enlightening  hour  that  her  father  was  also 
there  and  had  been  throughout  all  the  years  in  which 
fancy  played  so  important  a  part. 

Like  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  she  was  given  to  under- 
stand that  her  father  had  cruelly  abandoned  her 
mother.  In  her  soul  she  had  always  cherished  the  hope 
that  this  heartless  monster  might  one  day  stand  before 
her,  pleading  and  penitent,  only  to  be  turned  away 
with  the  scorn  he  so  richly  deserved.  She  even  pic- 
tured him  as  rich  and  powerful,  possessed  of  everything 
except  the  one  greet  boon  which  she  alone  could  give 
him, — a  daughter's  love.  And  she  would  point  to  the 
top  of  Quill's  Window  and  tell  him  that  he  must  first 


THE  STORY  THE  OLD  MAN  TOLD       33 

look  there  for  forgiveness, — under  the  rocks  where  his 
broken-hearted  victim  slept. 

The  truth  stunned  her.  She  was  a  long  time  in  realiz- 
ing that  her  grandfather,  whom  she  both  loved  and 
feared, — this  grim,  adoring  old  giant, — not  only  had 
murdered  her  father  but  undoubtedly  had  killed  her 
mother  as  well.  The  story  that  David  Windom  had 
written  out  and  signed  at  the  certain  approach  of 
death,  read  aloud  in  his  presence  by  the  shocked  and 
incredulous  lawyer,  and  afterwards  printed  word  for 
word  in  the  newspapers  at  the  old  man's  command, 
changed  the  whole  course  of  life  for  her.  In  fact,  her 
nature  underwent  a  sharp  but  subtle  change.  There 
was  nothing  left  to  her  of  the  old  life,  no  thought,  no 
purpose,  no  fancy ;  all  had  been  swept  up  in  a  heap  and 
destroyed  in  the  short  space  of  half  an  hour.  Every- 
thing in  her  life  had  to  be  reconstructed,  made-over  to 
suit  the  new  order.  She  could  no  longer  harbour  venge- 
ful thoughts  concerning  her  father,  she  could  no  longer 
charge  him  with  the  wanton  destruction  of  her  mother's 
happiness. 

The  grandfather  she  had  loved  all  her  life  assumed 
another  shape  entirely ;  he  was  no  longer  the  same,  and! 
never  again  could  be  the  same.  She  did  not  hate  him. 
That  was  impossible.  She  had  never  seen  her  parents, 
so  she  had  not  known  the  love  of  either.  They  did  not 
belong  in  her  life  except  through  the  sheerest  imagina- 
tion. Her  grandfather  was  the  only  real  thing  she  had 
had  in  life,  and  she  had  adored  him.  He  had  killed  two 
people  who  were  as  nothing  to  her,  but  he  had  taken 
the  place  of  both.  How  could  she  bring  herself  to  hate 
this  man  who  had  destroyed  what  were  no  more  than 


34  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

names  to  her?  Father, — Mother!  Two  words, — that 
was  all.  And  for  twenty  long  years  he  had  been  paying, 
— Oh,  how  he  must  have  paid ! 

She  recalled  his  reason  for  taking  her  to  England 
when  she  was  less  than  eight  years  old  and  leaving  her 
there  until  she  was  twelve.  She  remembered  that  he 
had  said  he  wanted  her  to  be  like  her  grandmother,  to 
grow  up  among  her  people,  to  absorb  from  them  all  that 
had  made  the  first  Alix  so  strong  and  fine  and  true. 
And  then  he  had  come  to  take  her  from  them,  back  to 
the  land  of  her  birth,  because,  he  said,  he  wanted  her  to 
be  like  her  mother,  the  second  Alix, — an  American 
woman.  She  recalled  his  bitter  antipathy  to  co-educa- 
tional institutions  and  his  unyielding  resolve  that  she 
should  complete  her  schooling  in  a  Sacred  Heart  Con- 
vent. She  remembered  the  commotion  this  decision  cre- 
ated ambng  his  neighbours.  In  her  presence  they  had 
assailed  him  with  the  charge  that  he  was  turning  the 
girl  over,  body  and  soul,  to  the  Catholic  Church,  and  he 
had  uttered  in  reply  the  never  to  be  forgotten  words : 

"  If  I  never  do  anything  worse  than  that  for  her, 
I'll  be  damned  well  satisfied  with  my  chance  of  getting 
into  heaven  as  soon  as  the  rest  of  you." 

When  David's  will  was  read,  it  was  found  that  except 
for  a  few  small  bequests,  his  entire  estate,  real  and  per- 
sonal, was  left  to  his  granddaughter,  Alix  Crown,  to 
have  and  to  hold  in  perpetuity  without  condition  or 
restriction  of  any  sort  or  character. 

The  first  thing  she  did  was  to  have  a  strong  picket 
fence  constructed  around  the  base  of  the  hill  leading 
up  to  Quill's  Window,  shutting  off  all  accessible  ave- 
nues of  approach  to  the  summit.  Following  close  upon 
the  publication  of  David  Windom's  confession,  large 


THE  STORY  THE  OLD  MAN  TOLD      35 

numbers  of  people  were  urged  by  morbid  curiosity  to 
visit  the  strange  burial-place  of  Edward  and  Alix 
Crown.  The  top  of  Quill's  Window  became  the  most 
interesting  spot  in  the  county.  Alix  the  Third  was 
likewise  an  object  of  vast  interest,  and  the  old,  deserted 
farmhouse  on  the  ridge  came  in  for  its  share  of 
curiosity. 

Almost  immediately  after  the  double  tragedy  and  the 
birth  of  little  Alix,  David  Windom  moved  out  of  the 
house  and  took  up  his  residence  in  the  riverside  village 
of  Windomville,  a  mile  to  the  south.  The  old  house  was 
closed,  the  window  shutters  nailed  up,  the  doors  barred, 
and  all  signs  of  occupancy  removed.  It  was  said  that 
he  never  put  foot  inside  the  yard  after  his  hasty,  in- 
explicable departure.  The  place  went  to  rack  and  ruin. 
In  course  of  time  he  built  a  new  and  modern  house 
nearer  the  village,  and  this  was  now  one  of  the  show 
places  of  the  district. 

The  influence  of  Alix  the  First  was  expressed  in  the 
modelling  of  house  and  grounds,  the  result  being  a 
picturesque  place  with  a  distinctly  English  atmosphere, 
set  well  back  from  the  highway  in  the  heart  of  a  grove 
of  oaks, — a  substantial  house  of  brick  with  a  steep  red 
tile  roof,  white  window  casements,  and  a  wide  brick 
terrace  guarded  by  a  low  ivy-draped  wall.  English  ivy- 
swathed  the  two  corners  of  the  house  facing  the  road, 
mounting  high  upon  the  tall  red  chimneys  at  the  ends. 
There  were  flower-beds  below  the  terrace,  and  off  to 
the  right  there  was  an  old-fashioned  garden.  The 
stables  were  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  some  distance  to  the 
rear  of  the  house. 

The  village  of  Windomville  lay  below,  hugging  the 


36  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

river,  a  relic  of  the  days  when  steamboats  plied  up  and 
down  the  stream  and  railways  were  remote,  a  sleepy, 
insignificant,  intensely  rural  hamlet  of  less  than  six 
hundred  inhabitants.  Its  one  claim  to  distinction  was 
the  venerable  but  still  active  ferry  that  laboured  back 
and  forth  across  the  river.  Of  secondary  importance 
was  the  ancient  dock,  once  upon  a  time  the  stopping 
place  of  steamboats,  but  now  a  rotten,  rickety  obstruc- 
tion upon  which  the  downstream  drift  lodged  in  an. 
unsightly  mass. 

In  the  solid  red-brick  house  among  the  oaks  Alix  the 
Third  had  spent  her  childhood  days.  She  was  taken  to 
England  when  she  was  eight  by  her  haunted  grand- 
father, not  only  to  receive  the  bringing-up  of  an  Eng- 
lish child,  but  because  David  Windom's  courage  was 
breaking  down.  As  she  grew  older,  the  resemblance  to 
Edward  Crown  became  more  and  more  startling.  She 
had  his  dark,  smiling  eyes;  his  wavy  brown  hair;  her 
very  manner  of  speech  was  like  his.  To  David  Windom, 
she  was  the  re-incarnation  of  the  youth  he  had  slain. 
Out  of  her  eyes  seemed  to  look  the  soul  of  Edward 
Crown.  He  could  not  stand  it.  She  became  an  obses- 
sion, a  curious  source  of  fascination.  He  could  not 
bear  her  out  of  his  sight,  and  yet  when  she  was  with 
him,  smiling  up  into  his  eyes, — he  was  deathly  afraid 
of  her.  There  were  times  when  he  was  almost  over- 
come by  the  impulse  to  drop  to  his  knees  and  plead  for 
forgiveness  as  he  looked  into  the  clear,  friendly,  ques- 
tioning eyes  of  Edward  Crown. 

And  her  voice,  her  speech, — therein  lay  the  true 
cause  of  his  taking  her  to  England.  When  she  came 
home  to  him,  after  four  ye£rs,  there  was  no  trace  of 
Edward  Crown  in  her  voice  or  manner  of  speaking. 


THE  STORY  THE  OLD  MAN  TOLD       37, 

She  was  almost  as  English  as  Alix  the  First.     But  her 
eyes  had  not  changed ;  he  was  still  a  haunted  man. 

In  the  little  graveyard  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village 
more  than  a  score  of  Windoms  lie.  With  them  lies  all 
that  was  mortal  of  fair  Alix  the  First,  and  beside  her 
is  David  Windom,  the  murderer. 


CHAPTER  III 

COURTNEY    THANE 

"     A    ND  what  has  become  of  Alix  the  Third?  "  in- 
/A  quired  the  young  man,  squinting  at  his  wrist- 
watch   and   making   out   in   the   semi-darkness 
that  it  was  nearly  half-past  nine. 

He  had  listened  somewhat  indulgently  to  the  story 
of  the  three  Alixes.  The  old  man,  prompted  and 
sometimes  disputed  by  other  members  of  the  family, 
had  narrated  in  his  own  simple  way  the  foregoing  tale, 
arriving  at  the  end  in  a  far  more  expeditious  and  cer- 
tainly in  a  less  studied  manner  than  the  present  chron- 
icler employs  in  putting  the  facts  before  his  readers. 
The  night  was  hot.  He  was  occasionally  interrupted 
by  various  members  of  the  little  group  on  the  front 
porch  of  the  big  old  farmhouse,  the  interruption  inva- 
riably taking  the  form  of  a  conjecture  concerning  the 
significance  of  certain  signs  ordinarily  infallible  in  de- 
noting the  approach  of  rain.  Heat  lightning  had  been 
playing  for  an  hour  or  more  in  the  gloomy  west ;  a  tree- 
toad  in  a  nearby  elm  was  prophesying  thunder  in  un- 
melodious  song:  night-birds  fluttered  restlessly  among 
the  lofty  branches  ;  widely  separated  whiffs  of  a  freshen- 
ing wind  came  around  the  corner  of  the  house.  All  of 
these  had  a  barometric  meaning  to  the  wistful  group. 
There  was  a  thunderstorm  on  the  way.  It  was  sure  to 
come  before  morning.  The  prayers  inaugurated  a 
month  ago  were  at  last  to  be  answered. 
38 


COURTNEY  THANE  39 

As  old  man  Brown  drily  remarked :  "  There's  one  sat- 
isfaction about  prayin'  for  rain.  If  you  keep  at  it 
long  enough,  you're  bound  to  get  what  you're  askin' 
for.  Works  the  same  way  when  you're  prayin'  for  it 
to  stop  rainin'.  My  grandfather  once  prayed  for  a 
solid  two  months  before  he  got  rain,  and  then,  by  gosh, 
he  had  to  pray  for  nearly  three  weeks  to  get  it  to  quit." 

Supper  over,  the  young  man  had  reminded  his  ven- 
erable angling  companion  of  his  promise  to  relate  the 
history  of  Quill's  Window.  Old  Caleb  Brown  was  the 
father  of  Mrs.  Vick, — Lucinda  Vick,  wife  of  the  farmer 
in  whose  house  the  young  man  was  spending  a  month  as 
a  boarder. 

The  group  on  the  porch  included  Amos  Vick,  anxious, 
preoccupied,  and  interested  only  in  the  prospect  of 
rain ;  his  daughter  Rosabel,  aged  eighteen,  a  very  pretty 
and  vivacious  girl,  interested  only  in  the  young  man 
from  the  far-off,  mysterious  city  in  the  East ;  his  son 
Caleb,  a  rugged  youth  of  nineteen;  Mrs.  Vick,  and  a 
neighbour  named  White,  who  had  come  over  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  finding  out  just  what  Amos  Vick  thought 
about  the  weather.  Two  dogs  lay  panting  on  the  dry 
grass  at  the  foot  of  the  steps. 

"  Oh,  she's  living  over  there  in  the  Windom  house," 
said  Mrs.  Vick. 

"  Sort  of  running  the  place,"  explained  Mr.  Brown, 
a  trace  of  irony  in  his  voice. 

"  Well,"  put  in  Amos  Vick,  speaking  for  the  first 
time  in  many  minutes,  "  she's  got  a  lot  of  sense,  that 
girl  has.  She  may  be  letting  on  that  she's  running  the 
farm,  but  she  ain't,  you  bet.  That's  where  she's  smart. 
She's  got  sense  enough  to  know  she  don't  know  anything 
about  running  a  farm,  and  while  she  puts  on  a  lot  of 


40  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

airs  and  acts  kind  of  important  like,  the  real  truth  is 
she  leaves  everything  to  old  Jim  Bagley.  I  guess  you 
don't  know  who  Jim  Bagley  is,  do  you,  Courtney?  " 

"  I  can't  say  that  I  do,"  replied  the  young  man. 

"  Well,  he's  about  the  slickest  citizen  you  ever  saw. 
From  what  father  here  says  about  your  granddad,  he 
must  have  been  a  purty  hard  customer  to  deal  with,  but, 
by  ginger,  if  he  was  any  worse  than  Jim  Bagley  in  driv- 
ing a  bargain,  I'm  glad  he  died  as  long  ago  as  he  did." 

"  You're  just  sore,  Amos,"  said  his  wife,  "  because 
Mr.  Bagley  got  the  best  of  you  in  that  hog  deal  three 
years  ago." 

"  Oh,  Lord,  ain't  you  ever  going  to  get  tired  of 
thro  win'  that  up  to  me?  "  groaned  Mr.  Vick.  "  I  never 
mention  Jim  Bagley's  name  but  what  you  up  and  say 
something  about  them  hogs.  Now,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
them  hogs — " 

"  For  goodness  sake,  Pa,  you're  not  going  to  tell 
Mr.  Thane  about  that  hog  business,  are  you?  "  cried 
Rosabel. 

"  Well,  when  your  Ma  begins  to  insinuate  that  I  got 
the  worst  of — " 

"  I  don't  say  that  you  got  the  worst  of  it,  Amos," 
interrupted  Mrs.  Vick  good-humouredly.  "  I  only  say 
that  he  got  the  best  of  it." 

"Well,  if  that  don't  come  to  the  same—" 

"  Looks  to  me,  Amos,  like  we'd  get  her  good  and 
plenty  before  mornin',"  broke  in  Mr.  White.  He  was 
referring  to  the  weather.  "  That  ain't  all  heat  light- 
nin'  over  there.  Seems  to  me  I  heard  a  little  thunder 
just  now." 

"  Alix  Crown  is  away  a  good  part  of  the  time,  Court- 


COURTNEY  THANE  41 

ney,"  said  Mrs.  Vick,  taking  up  the  thread  where  it 
had  been  severed  by  recrimination.  "  All  through  the 
war, — long  before  we  went  in, — she  was  up  in  town 
working  for  the  Belgiums,  and  then,  when  we  did  go  in, 
she  went  East  some'eres  to  learn  how  to  be  a  nurse  or 
drive  an  ambulance  or  something, — New  York,  I  be- 
lieve. And  as  for  money,  she  contributed  quite  a  bit — 
how  much  do  they  say  it  was,  Amos  ?  " 

"  Well,  all  I  know  is  that  Mary  Simmons  says  she 
gave  ten  thousand  dollars  and  Josie  Fiddler  says  it 
was  three  hundred, — so  you  can  choose  between  'em." 

"  She  did  her  share,  all  right,"  said  young  Caleb 
defensively.  "  That's  more'n  a  lot  of  people  around 
here  did." 

"  Gale's  in  love  with  her,  Mr.  Thane,"  explained 
Rosabel.  "  She's  five  years  older  than  he  is,  and  don't 
know  he's  on  earth." 

"  Aw,  cut  that  out,"  growled  Caleb. 

"  Is  she  good-looking?  "  inquired  Courtney  Thane. 

"  I  don't  like  'em  quite  as  tall  as  she  is,"  said  Mr. 
White. 

"  She's  got  a  good  pair  of  legs,"  said  old  Caleb 
Brown,  shifting  his  cigar  with  his  tongue. 

"  We're  not  talking  about  horses,  father,"  said  Mrs. 
Vick  sharply. 

"  Who  said  we  was?  "  demanded  old  Caleb. 

"  Most  people  think  she's  good-looking,"  said  Rosa- 
bel, somewhat  grudgingly.  "  And  she  isn't  any  taller 
than  I  am,  Mr.  White." 

"  Well,  you  ain't  no  dwarft,  Rosie,"  exclaimed 
Farmer  White,  with  a  brave  laugh.  "  You  must  be  five 
foot  seven  or  eight,  but  you  ain't  skinny  like  she  is. 


42  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

She'd  ought  to  weigh  about  a  hunderd  and  sixty,  for 
her  height,  and  I'll  bet  she  don't  weigh  more'n  a  hun- 
derd and  thirty." 

"  I  wouldn't  call  that  skinny,"  remarked  Courtney. 

"  She  wears  these  here  new-fangled  britches  when 
she's  on  horseback,"  said  old  Caleb,  justifying  his  ob- 
servation. "  Rides  straddle,  like  a  man.  You  can't 
help  seeing  what  kind  of- —  " 

"  That  wiU  do,  Pa,"  broke  in  his  wife.  "  It's  no 
crime  for  a  woman  to  wear  pants  when  she's  riding, 
although  I  must  say  I  don't  think  it's  very  modest.  I 
never  rode  any  way  except  side-saddle, — and  neither 
has  Rosabel.  I've  brought  her  up —  " 

"  Don't  you  be  too  sure  of  that,  Ma,"  interrupted 
young  Caleb  maliciously. 

"  I  never  did  it  but  once,  and  you  know  it,  Cale  Vick," 
cried  Rosabel,  blushing  violently. 

The  subject  was  abruptly  changed  by  Mr.  White. 

"  Well,  I  guess  I'll  be  moseyin'  along  home,  Amos. 
That  certainly  did  sound  like  thunder,  didn't  it?  And 
that  tree-toad  has  stopped  signalling — that's  a  sure 
sign.  Like  as  not  I'll  get  caught  in  the  rain  if  I  don't, 
— what  say,  Lucindy?  " 

"  Do  you  want  an  umberell,  Steve?  " 

"  I  should  say  not!  What  do  you  want  me  to  do? 
Scare  the  rain  off?  No,  sir!  Rain's  the  funniest  thing 
in  the  world.  If  it  sees  you  got  an  umberell  it  won't 
come  within  a  hunderd  miles  of  you.  That's  why  I  got 
my  Sunday  clothes  on,  and  my  new  straw  hat.  Some- 
times that'll  bring  rain  out  of  a  clear  sky, — that  an* 
a  Sunday-school  picnic.  It's  a  pity  we  couldn't  have 
got  up  a  Sunday-school  picnic, — but  then,  of  course, 
that  wouldn't  have  done  any  good.  You  can't  fool  a 


COURTNEY  THANE  43 

rainstorm.  So  long,  Amos.  Night,  everybody.  Night, 
Courtney.  As  I  was  sayin'  awhile  ago,  I  used  to  go  to 
school  with  your  pa  when  him  an'  me  was  little  shavers, 
—up  yonder  at  the  old  Kennedy  schoolhouse.  Fifty 
odd  years  ago.  Seems  like  yesterday.  How  old  did  you 
say  you  was?  " 

"  Twenty-eight,  Mr.  White." 

"  And  your  pa's  been  dead — how  long  did  you  say?  " 

"  He  died  when  I  was  twenty-two." 

"  Funny  your  ma  didn't  bring  him  out  here  and  bury 
him  'longside  his  father  and  all  the  rest  of  'em^u£  in 
the  family  burying-ground,"  was  Mr.  White's  conclud- 
ing observation  as  he  ambled  off  down  the  gravel  walk 
to  the  front  gate. 

"  I  wish  you'd  brought  your  croix  de  guerre  along 
with  you,  Mr.  Thane,"  said  young  Caleb,  his  eyes 
gleaming  in  the  faint  light  from  the  open  door.  "  I 
guess  I  don't  pronounce  it  as  it  ought  to  be.  Fm  not 
much  of  a  hand  at  French." 

"  You  came  pretty  close  to  it,"  said  Thane,  with  a 
smile.  *'  You  see,  Cale,  it's  the  sort  of  thing  one  puts 
away  in  a  safe  place.  That's  why  I  left  it  in  New  York. 
Mother  likes  to  look  at  it  occasional!}'.  Mothers  are 
queer  creatures,  you  know.  They  like  to  be  reminded 
of  the  good  tilings  their  sons  have  done.  It  helps  'em 
to  forget  the  bad  things,  I  suppose." 

"  You're  always  joking,"  pouted  Rosabel,  leaning 
forward,  ardour  in  her  wide,  young  eyes.  "  If  I  was  a 
boy  and  had  been  in  the  war,  I'd  never  stop  talking 
about  it." 

"  And  I'd  have  been  in  it,  too,  if  pa  hadn't  up  and 
told  'em  I  was  only  a  little  more  than  fifteen,"  said 
Cale,  glowering  at  his  father  in  the  darkness. 


44.  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"  You  mustn't  blame  your  pa,  Cale,"  rebuked  his 
mother.  "  He  knows  what  a  soldier's  life  is  better  than 
you  do.  He  was  down  in  that  camp  at  Chattanooga 
during  the  Spanish  War,  and  almost  died  of  typhoid, 
Courtney.  And  when  I  think  of  the  way  our  boys  died 
by  the  millions  of  the  flu,  I — well,  I  just  know  you 
would  have  died  of  it,  sonny,  and  I  wouldn't  have  had 
any  cross  or  medal  to  look  at,  and — and —  " 

"  Don't  begin  cryin',  Lucindy,"  broke  in  old  Caleb 
hastily.  "  He  didn't  die  of  the  flu,  so  what's  the  sense 
of  worryin'  about  it  now?  He  didn't  even  ketch  it,  and 
gosh  knows,  the  whole  blamed  country  was  full  ofjt 
that  winter." 

*'  Well,"  began  Mrs.  Vick  defensively,  and  then  com- 
pressed her  lips  in  silence. 

"  I  think  it  was  perfectly  wonderful  of  you,  Mr. 
Thane,  to  go  over  to  France  and  fight  in  the  American 
Ambulance  so  long  before  we  went  into  the  war."  This 
from  the  adoring  Rosabel.  "  I  wish  you'd  tell  us  more 
about  your  experiences.  They  must  have  been  terrible. 
You  never  talk  about  them,  though.  I  think  the  real 
heroes  were  the  fellows  who  went  over  when  you  did, — 
when  you  didn't  really  have  to,  because  America  wasn't 
in  it." 

"  The  American  Ambulance  wasn't  over  there  to 
fight,  you  know,"  explained  Courtney. 

"  What  did  you  get  the  cross  for  if  you  weren't 
fighting?  "  demanded  young  Cale. 

"  For  doing  what  a  whole  lot  of  other  fellows  did, — 
simply  going  out  and  getting  a  wounded  man  or  two 
in  No-Man's  Land.  We  didn't  think  much  about  it  at 
the  time." 

"  Was  it  very  dangerous?  "  asked  Rosabel. 


COURTNEY  THANE  45 

"  I  suppose  it  was, — more  or  less  so,"  replied  Thane 
indifferently.  He  even  yawned.  "  I'd  rather  talk  about 
Alix  the  Third,  if  it's  all  the  same  to  you.  Is  she  light 
or  dark?" 

"  She's  a  brunette,"  said  Rosabel  shortly.  «  All  ex- 
cept her  eyes.  They're  blue.  How  long  were  you  up 
at  the  front,  Mr.  Thane?  " 

"  Oh,  quite  a  while, — several  months,  in  fact.  At 
first  we  were  in  a  place  where  there  wasn't  much  fight- 
ing. Just  before  the  first  big  Verdun  drive  we  were 
transferred  to  that  sector,  and  then  we  saw  a  lot  of 
action." 

"  Some  battle,  wasn't  it?  "  exclaimed  young  Cale,  a 
thrill  in  his  voice. 

"  Certainly  was,"  said  Courtney.  "  We  used  to 
work  forty-eight  hours  at  a  stretch,  taking  'em  back  by 
the  thousands." 

"  How  near  did  the  shells  ever  come  to  you?  " 

"  Oh,  sometimes  as  close  as  twenty  or  thirty  feet.  I 
remember  one  that  dropped  in  the  road  about  fifty  feet 
ahead  of  my  car,  and  before  I  could  stop  we  ran  plunk 
into  the  hole  it  made  and  upset.  I  suppose  the  Windom 
estate  must  be  a  pretty  big  one,  isn't  it,  Mr.  Vick?  " 

"  Taking  everything  into  consideration,  it  amounts 
to  nearly  a  million  dollars.  David  Windom  had  quite 
a  bit  of  property  up  in  the  city,  aside  from  his  farm, 
and  he  owned  a  big  ranch  out  in  Texas.  The  grain 
elevator  in  Windomville  belonged  to  him, — still  belongs 
to  Alix  Crown, — and  there's  a  three  mile  railroad  con- 
necting with  the  main  line  over  at  Smith's  Siding. 
Every  foot  of  it  is  on  his  land.  He  built  the  railroad 
about  twenty  year  ago,  and  the  elevator,  too, — out  of 
spite,  they  say,  for  the  men  that  run  the  elevator  at 


46  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

Hawkins  a  little  further  up  the  road.  Hawkins  is  the 
place  where  his  daughter  and  Edward  Crown  got  off 
the  train  the  night  of  the  murder." 

"  And  this  young  girl  owns  all  of  it, — farms,  ranch, 
railroad  and  everything?  " 

"  Every  cent's  worth  of  it  is  her'n.  There  ain't  a 
sign  of  a  mortgage  on  any  of  it,  either.  It's  as  clear 
as  a  blank  sheet  of  writin'  paper." 

"  When  was  it  you  were  gassed,  Mr.  Thane?  "  in- 
quired young  Caleb. 

"  Oh,  that  was  when  I  was  in  the  air  service, — only 
a  few  weeks  before  the  armistice." 

"You  left  your  wings  at  home,  too,  I  suppose?" 

"  Yes.  Mother  likes  to  look  at  the  only  wings  I'll 
probably  ever  have, — now  or  hereafter." 

"  How  does  it  come,  Court,  that  you  went  into  the 
British  air  corpse,  'stead  of  in  the  U.  S.  A.  ?  "  inquired 
old  Caleb. 

"  I  joined  the  Royal  Flying  Corps,  Mr.  Brown,  be- 
cause the  Americans  wouldn't  have  me,"  replied  Thane 
tersely.  "  I  tried  to  get  in,  but  they  wouldn't  pass  me. 
Said  I  had  a  weak  heart  and  a  whole  lot  of  rubbish  like 
that.  It's  no  wonder  the  American  Air  Service  was 
punk.  I  went  over  to  Toronto  and  they  took  me  like  a 
shot  in  the  Royal  British.  They  weren't  so  blamed 
finicky  and  old  womanish.  All  they  asked  for  in  an 
applicant  was  any  kind  of  a  heart  at  all  so  long  as  it 
was  with  the  cause.  I  don't  suppose  I  ought  to  say 
it,  but  the  American  Air  Service  was  a  joke." 

"  I  hope  you  ain't  turning  British  in  your  feelings, 
Court,"  remarked  Amos  Vick.  "  It's  purty  difficult  to 
be  both,  you  know, — English  and  Yankee." 

"  I'm  American  through  and  through,  Mr.  Vick,  even 


COURTNEY  THANE  47 

though  I  did  serve  under  the  British  flag  till  I  was 
gassed  and  invalided  out." 

"  Affects  the  lungs,  don't  it?  "  inquired  old  Caleb. 

"I  don't  like  to  talk  about  it,  Mr.  Brown.  I'm 
trying  to  forget  what  hell  was  like.  I  was  in  hospital 
for  four  months.  It  took  a  lot  more  nerve  to  draw 
a  breath  then  than  it  did  to  fly  over  the  German  lines 
with  the  Bodies  popping  away  from  all  sides.  I  didn't 
mind  the  wounds  I  sustained, — but  the  gas!  Gee,  it 
was  horrible." 

"  Your  ma  said  in  her  letter  to  me  that  you'd  had 
pneumonia  twice  since  you  got  back,"  said  Mrs.  Vick. 
"  Was  that  due  to  the  gas?  " 

"  I  suppose  so.  They  thought  I  had  tuberculosis 
for  awhile,  you  see.  Then,  this  spring,  I  had  to  go 
and  have  a  bout  with  typhoid.  I  ought  to  be  dead,  with 
all  I've  had, — but  here  I  am,  alive  and  happy,  and  if 
you  keep  on  feeding  me  as  you  have  been  for  the  past 
three  days,  I'll  live  forever." 

"  You  mustn't  overdo,  Courtney,"  warned  the 
farmer's  wife.  **  Your  ma  sent  you  out  here  to  get 
well,  and  I  feel  a  kind  of  responsibility  for  you.  I  guess 
it's  about  time  you  was  off  to  bed.  Come  on,  Amos. 
It  isn't  going  to  bring  rain  any  sooner  for  you  to  be 
setting  out  here  watching  for  it." 

Old  Caleb  had  his  say.  "  I  suppose  it  was  all  right 
for  you  to  serve  with  the  British,  Court,  but  if  you'd 
waited  a  little  while  longer  you  might  have  carried  a 
gun  over  there  under  the  Stars  and  Stripes.  But,  as 
you  say,  you  couldn't  bear  to  wait.  I  give  you  credit 
for  it.  I'm  derned  glad  to  see  one  member  of  the  Thane 
family  that  had  the  nerve  to  volunteer.  At  the  time 
of  the  Civil  War  your  grandpa  was  what  we  call  a 


48  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

slacker  in  these  days.  He  hired  a  feller  to  go  in  his 
place,  and  when  that  feller  was  killed  and  a  second  call 
for  volunteers  come  up,  dogged  if  he  didn't  up  and  hire 
another  one.  One  of  your  grandpa's  brothers  skipped 
off  to  Canada  so's  he  wouldn't  have  to  serve,  and  the 
other, — his  name  was  George  Washington  Thane,  by; 
the  way, — accidentally  shot  two  of  his  fingers  off  while 
his  company  was  in  camp  down  at  Crawfordsville, 
gettin'  ready  to  go  down  and  meet  Morgan's  Riders, — 
and  that  let  him  out.  I  admit  it  takes  right  smart  of 
courage  to  accidentally  shoot  your  fingers  off,  specially 
when  nobody  is  lookin',  but  at  any  rate  he  had  a  uni- 
form on  when  he  done  it.  Course,  there  wasn't  any 
wars  during  your  pa's  day,  so  I  don't  know  how  he 
would  have  acted.  He  wasn't  much  of  a  feller  for 
fightin',  though, — I  remember  that.  I  mean  fist 
fightin'.  I'm  glad  to  know  you  don't  take  after  your 
granddad.  I  never  had  any  use  for  a  coward,  and 
that's  why  I'm  proud  to  shake  hands  with  you,  my 
boy.  There  was  a  derned  bad  streak  in  your  family 
back  in  your  granddad's  day,  and  it  certainly  is  good 
to  see  that  you  have  wiped  it  out.  It  don't  always  hap- 
pen so.  Teller  streaks  are  purty  hard  to  wipe  out. 
Takes  more  than  two  generations  to  do  it  as  a  rule. 
I'm  happy  to  know  you  ain't  gun  shy." 

The  young  man  laughed.  "  I  don't  mind  telling  you, 
Mr.  Brown,  that  I  never  went  into  action  without  being 
scared  half  out  of  my  boots.  But  I  wasn't  alone  in 
that,  you  see.  I  never  knew  a  man  over  there  who 
wasn't  scared  when  he  went  over  th*e  top.  He  went, 
just  the  same, — and  that's  what  I  call  courage." 

"  So  do  I,"  cried  Rosabel. 

"  Did  you  ever  know  for  sure  whether  you  got  a 


COURTNEY  THANE  49 

German?"  asked  the  intense  young  Caleb.     "I  mean,' 
— did  you  ever  kill  one?  " 

"  That's  pretty  hard  to  say,  Cale.  We  never  knew, 
you  see, — we  fellows  up  in  the  clouds.  I  was  in  a  bomb- 
ing machine.  I'd  hate  to  think  that  we  wasted  any 
bombs." 

"  Come  now, — all  of  you, — off  to  bed,"  interposed 
Mrs.  Vick.  "  I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more,  Courtney. 
I  wouldn't  sleep  a  wink." 

"  Strikin'  ten,"  said  Amos,  arising  from  his  rocking- 
chair  and  turning  it  upside  down  at  the  back  of  the 
porch. 

"  Don't  do  that,  Amos,"  protested  old  Caleb.  "  It'll 
never  rain  if  you —  Why,  dog-gone  it,  ain't  you  learned 
that  it's  bad  luck  to  turn  a  chair  bottom-side  up  when 
rain's  needed?  Turn  it  right-side  up  and  put  it  right 
out  here  in  front  again  where  the  rain  can  get  at  it. 
Nothin'  tickles  the  weather  more'n  a  chance  to  spoil 
something.  That's  right.  Now  we  c'n  go  to  bed.  Bet- 
ter leave  them  cushions  on  the  steps  too,  Rosie." 

Courtney  Thane  went  to  his  room, — the  spare-room 
on  the  second  floor, — and  prepared  to  retire.  The  proc- 
ess was  attended  by  the  smoking  of  three  cigarettes. 
Presently  he  was  stretched  out  on  the  bed  without  even 
so  much  as  a  sheet  over  him.  The  heat  was  stifling. 
Not  a  breath  of  air  came  in  through  the  wide-open 
windows.  He  lay  awake  for  a  long  time,  staring  out 
into  the  night. 

"  So  my  precious  granddad  had  a  yellow  streak  in 
him,  did  he?  And  father  wasn't  much  of  a  fighter 
either.  Takes  more  than  two  generations  to  wipe  out 
a  yellow  streak,  does  it?  I  wonder  what  the  old  boob 
meant  by  that  rotten  slam  at  my  people.'* 


CHAPTER  IV 

DOWD's    TAVERN 

THE  last  week  in  August  Courtney  Thane  left  the 
Vick  farm  and,  crossing  the  river,  took  lodgings 
at  the  boarding  house  conducted  by  the  Misses 
Dowd  in  the  town  of  Windomville. 

In  a  letter  to  his  mother,  informing  her  of  the  change, 
he  had  said: 

Of  course,  I  appreciate  the  fact  that  you  are  paying  the 
bills,  old  dear,  and  out  of  consideration  for  you  I  dare  say 
I  ought  to  stick  it  out  with  the  Vicks  till  November  as  we 
arranged.  But  I  simply  cannot  stand  it  any  longer.  The 
old  woman  almost  puts  me  to  bed,  the  girl  almost  sits  on 
my  lap,  the  boy  drives  me  crazy  with  his  infernal  questions 
about  the  war,  and  old  man  Brown, — the  one  who  went  to 
school  with  father  out  in  this  gosh  awful  land  of  the  grass- 
hopper,— he  is  the  limit.  He  never  lets  a  day  go  by  without 
some  slur  about  my  grandfather  or  some  other  member  of 
the  family  who  existed  long  before  I  was  born.  Thinks  he's 
witty.  He  is  always  nagging  at  me  about  cigarette  smoking. 
I  wish  you  could  see  the  way  he  mishandles  a  cigar.  As  you 
know,  I  seldom  smoke  more  than  a  half  dozen  cigarettes  a 
day,  but  he  swears  to  God  I  am  everlastingly  ruining  my 
health,  and  it  has  got  on  my  nerves  so  that  if  I  stay  on 
here  another  week  I'll  call  the  old  jay  so  hard  he'll  drop 
dead  from  the  shock.  And,  my  heavens,  how  lonesome  it  is 
here.  I  almost  die  of  homesickness.  I  just  had  to  find  a 
place  where  there  is  some  one'to  talk  to  besides  the  cows 
and  sheep  and  people  who  never  think  of  anything  but 
50 


DOWD'S  TAVERN  51 

crops  and  the  weather,  last  Sunday's  sermon  and  Theodore 
Roosevelt.  They  are  honest,  but,  my  God,  how  could  they 
be  anything  else?  It  would  not  be  right  for  me  to  deny 
that  I  have  improved  a  great  deal  in  the  last  couple  of 
weeks.  I  am  beginning  to  feel  pretty  fit,  and  I've  put  on 
four  or  five  pounds.  Still,  I'm  getting  sick  of  fresh  eggs 
and  fresh  milk  and  their  everlasting  bacon, — they  call  it 
side-meat, — and  preserves.  She  simply  stuffs  me  with 
them.  The  air  is  wonderful,  even  during  that  awful  hot 
spell  I  wrote  you  about.  I  am  sure  that  another  month  or 
two  out  here, — perhaps  three, — will  put  me  back  on  my 
pins  stronger  than  ever,  and  then  I'll  be  in  condition  to  go 
back  to  work.  I  am  eager  to  get  at  it  as  soon  as  possible  in 
order  to  pay  back  all  you  have  put  up  for  me  during  this 
beastly  year.  If  I  did  not  know  you  can  well  afford  to  do 
what  you  have  been  doing  for  me,  mother  dear,  I  wouldn't 
allow  you  to  spend  another  penny  on  me.  But  you  will  get 
it  all  back  some  day,  not  in  cash,  of  course, — for  that  means 
nothing  to  you, — but  in  the  joy  of  knowing  that  it  was 
worth  while  to  bring  your  only  son  into  the  world.  Now, 
as  to  this  change  I  am  going  to  make.  I've  been  across 
the  river  several  times  and  I  like  it  over  there  much  better 
than  here.  I  think  the  air  is  better  and  certainly  the  sur- 
roundings are  pleasanter.  Windomville  is  a  funny  little 
village  of  five  or  six  hundred  people,  about  the  same  number 
of  dogs  (exaggeration!),  and  the  sleepiest  place  you've  ever 
imagined.  Old  Caleb  Brown  says  it  was  laid  out  back  in 
1830  or  thereabouts  by  the  first  Windom  to  come  to  these 
parts.  It  has  a  public  school,  a  town  hall,  a  motion-picture 
house  (with  last  year's  reels),  a  drug  store  where  you  can 
get  soda  water,  a  grain  elevator,  and  a  wonderful  old  log 
hut  that  was  built  by  the  very  first  settler,  making  it  nearly 
a  hundred  years  old.  Miss  Alix  Crown,  who  owns  nearly 
everything  in  sight, — including  the  log  hut, — has  had  the 
latter  restored  and  turned  into  the  quaintest  little  town 
library  you've  ever  seen.  But  you  ought  to  see  the 


52  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

librarian!  She  is  a  dried-up,  squinty  old  maid  of  some 
seventy  summers,  and  so  full  of  Jane  Austen  and  the  Bronte 
women  and  Mrs.  Southworth  that  she  hasn't  an  inch  of 
room  left  in  her  for  the  modexn  writers.  Her  name  caps 
the  climax.  It  is  Alaska  Spigg.  Can  you  beat  it  ?  No  one 
ever  calls  her  Miss  Spigg, — not  even  the  kids, — nor  is  she 
iever  spoken  of  or  to  as  Alaska.  It  is  always  Alaska  Spigg. 
I  wish  you  could  see  her.  Miss  Crown  is  the  girl  I  wrote 
you  about,  the  one  with  the  dime  novel  history  back  of  her. 
She  has  a  house  on  the  edge  of  the  town, — a  very  attractive 
place.  I  have  not  seen  her  yet.  She  is  up  in  Michigan, — 
Harbor  Point,  I  believe, — but  I  hear  she  is  expected  home 
within  a  week  or  two.  I  am  rather  curious  to  see  her.  The 
place  where  I  have  taken  a  room  is  run  by  a  couple  of  old 
maids  named  Dowd.  It  is  really  a  sort  of  hotel.  At  least, 
you  would  insult  them  if  you  called  it  a  boarding  house. 
Their  grandfather  built  the  house  and  ran  it  as  a  tavern 
back  before  the  Civil  War.  When  he  died  his  son  carried 
on  the  business.  And  now  his  two  daughters  run  the  place. 
They  have  built  on  a  couple  of  wings  and  it  is  really  an 
interesting  old  shack.  Clean  as  a  pin,  and  they  say  the  grub 
is  good.  It  will  be,  as  I  said,  a  little  more  expensive  living 
here  than  with  the  Vicks  but  not  enough  to  amount  to  any- 
thing. The  Dowds  ask  only  fifteen  dollars  a  week  for  room 
and  board,  which  is  cheaper  than  the  Ritz-Carlton  or  the 
Commodore,  isn't  it?  .  .  .  Here  is  my  new  address  in  the 
Metropolis  of  Windomville-by-the-Crick :  Dowd's  Tavern, 
Main  Street 

Her  reply  was  prompt.  She  wrote  from  Bar  Harbor, 
where  she  was  spending  the  summer : 

.  .  .  perfectly  silly  of  you,  dearest,  to  speak  of  repay- 
ing me.  All  I  possess  will  be  yours  some  day,  so  why  be- 
grudge you  a  little  of  what  should  be  yours  now?  Your 
dear  father  perhaps  thought  he  was  doing  the  right  thing 
for  both  of  us  when  he  left  everything  to  me  during  my 


DOWD'S  TAVERN  53 

lifetime,  but  I  do  not  believe  it  was  fair.  .  .  .  There  will 
not  be  a  great  deal,  of  course.  You  understand  how  heavy 
my  expenses  have  been.  ...  In  any  case,  you  are  in 
wretched  health,  my  dear  boy.  Nothing  must  stand  in  the 
way  of  your  complete  recovery.  When  you  are  completely 
recovered,  well  and  strong  and  eager  to  take  up  life  where 
this  cruel  war  cut  it  off,  I  shall  be  the  happiest  mother 
alive.  I  am  sure  you  will  have  no  difficulty  in  establishing 
yourself.  They  tell  me  the  returned  soldiers  are  not  hav- 
ing an  easy  time  finding  satisfactory  and  lucrative  positions. 
It  is  a  shame  the  way  certain  concerns  have  treated  a  good 
many  of  them,  after  actually  promising  to  hold  their  places 
open  for  them.  But  with  you  it  will  be  different.  I  spoke 
to  Mr.  Roberts  yesterday  about  you.  He  wants  to  have  a 
talk  with  you.  I  have  an  idea  he  wants  to  put  you  in 
charge  of  one  of  their  offices  in  Spain.  At  any  rate,  he 
asked  if  you  spoke  Spanish  well.  .  .  .  So  I  can  easily 
afford  to  increase  your  allowance  to  one  hundred  and  fifty 
a  month.  More,  if  you  should  ask  for  it,  but  you  are  so 
proud  and  self-reliant  I  can  do  absolutely  nothing  with  you, 
dear  boy.  I  quite  understand  your  unwillingness  to  accept 
more  than  you  actually  need  from  me.  It  is  splendid,  and 
I  am  very  proud  of  you.  .  .  .  This  girl  you  wrote  me 
about,  is  she  so  very  rich  ?  .  .  .  Your  father  used  to  speak 
of  a  young  man  named  Windom  and  how  he  envied  him 
because  he  was  so  tall  and  handsome.  Of  course,  your 
dear  father  was  a  small  boy  then,  and  that  is  always  one 
of  the  laments  of  small  boys.  That,  and  falling  in  love 
with  women  old  enough  to  be  their  mothers.  .  .  .  Do 
write  me  often.  But  don't  be  angry  with  me  if  I  fail  to 
answer  all  of  your  letters.  I  am  so  frightfully  busy.  I 
rarely  ever  have  more  than  a  minute  to  myself.  How  I 
have  managed  to  find  the  time  to  write  this  long  letter  to 
you  I  cannot  imagine.  It  is  really  quite  a  nice  long  one, 
isn't  it?  .  .  .  and  don't  be  writing  home  to  me  in  a  few 
weeks  to  say  you  are  engaged  to  be  married  to  her.  It 


54  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

took  me  a  great  many  years  to  convert  your  dear  father 
into  what  he  was  as  you  knew  him.  I  don't  relish  the 
thought  at  my  time  of  life  of  transforming  a  crude  farmer's 
daughter  into  a  Fifth  Avenue  lady,  no  matter  how  pretty 
she  may  be  in  the  rough.  The  days  of  Cinderella  are  long 
since  past.  One  has  so  much  to  overcome  in  the  way  of 
a  voice  with  these  country  girls,  to  say  nothing  of  the  letter 
r.  Your  poor  father  never  quite  got  over  being  an  Indiana 
farmer's  son,  but  he  did  manage  to  subdue  the  aforesaid 
letter.  .  .  .  And  these  country-girls  take  a  harmless, 
amusing  flirtation  very  seriously,  dear  boy.  .  .  .  Your 
adoring  mother. 

Courtney  Thane's  fame  had  preceded  him  to  Win- 
domville.  By  this  time,  the  entire  district  had  heard  of 
the  man  who  was  gassed,  and  who  had  actually  won  two 
or  three  medals  for  bravery  in  the  Great  War.  The 
young  men  from  that  section  of  the  state  who  had  seen 
fighting  in  France  were  still  in  New  York  City,  looking 
for  jobs.  Most  of  them  had  "  joined  up  "  at  the  first 
call  for  volunteers.  Some  of  them  had  been  killed,  many 
of  them  wounded,  but  not  one  of  them  had  received  a 
medal  for  bravery.  The  men  who  had  been  called  by 
the  draft  into  the  great  National  Army  were  all  home 
again,  having  got  no  nearer  to  the  battle  front  than 
an  embarkation  camp  in  New  Jersey, — and  so  this  tall, 
slender  young  fellow  from  the  East  was  an  object  not 
only  of  curiosity  but  of  envy. 

The  Misses  Dowd  laid  themselves  out  to  make  him 
comfortable, — as  well  as  prominent.  They  gave  him  a 
corner  room  on  the  upper  floor  of  Dowd's  Tavern,  dis- 
possessing a  tenant  of  twelve  years'  standing, — a  pho- 
tographer named  Hatch,  whose  ability  to  keep  from 
living  too  far  in  arrears  depended  on  his  luck  in  in- 


DOWD'S  TAVERN  55 

veigling  certain  sentimental  customers  into  taking 
"  crayon  portraits  "  of  deceased  loved  ones,  satisfac- 
tion guaranteed,  frames  extra.  Two  windows,  looking 
out  over  the  roof  of  the  long  front  porch,  gave  him  an 
unobstructed  view  of  Main  .Street,  including  such 
edifices  as  the  postoffice,  the  log-hut  library,  the  ancient 
watering  trough,  the  drug  store,  and  the  steeple  of  the 
Presbyterian  Church  rising  proudly  above  the  roofs  of 
the  houses  in  between. 

Main  Street  ran  almost  parallel  with  the  river.  With 
commendable  forethought,  the  first  settlers  had  built 
their  houses  and  stores  some  little  distance  back  from 
the  stream  along  the  summit  of  a  wooded  ridge  perhaps 
forty  feet  above  the  river  at  its  midsummer  low-water 
level.  The  tremendous,  devastating  floods  that  came 
annually  with  the  breaking  up  of  winter  failed  to  reach 
the  houses, — although  in  1883, — according  to  the  rec- 
ords,— the  water  came  up  to  within  a  foot  of  Joe 
Roush's  blacksmith  shop,  situated  at  that  time  halfway 
down  the  slope,  compelling  the  smith  to  think  seriously 
of  "  moving  up  a  couple  of  hops,"  a  precaution  that  was 
rendered  unnecessary  by  a  subsequent  midsummer  bolt 
of  lightning  that  destroyed  not  only  the  forge  but 
shocked  Joe  so  severely  that  he  "  saw  green  "  for  a 
matter  of  six  weeks  and  finally  resulted  in  his  falling 
off  the  dock  into  deep  water  in  the  middle  of  what  was 
intended  to  be  a  protracted  spree  brought  on  by  the 
discovery  that  his  insurance  policy  did  not  cover  "  loss 
by  lightning."  To  this  day,  the  older  inhabitants  of 
Windomville  will  tell  you  about  the  way  his  widow 
"  took  on  "  until  she  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer, — and 
then  married  George  Hooper,  the  butcher,  four  months 
after  the  shocking  demise  of  Joseph. 


56  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

Dowd's  Tavern  had  few  transient  guests.  "  Drum- 
mers "  from  the  city  hard-by  dropped  in  occasionally 
for  a  midday  meal,  but  they  never  stayed  the  night. 
.The  guests  were  what  the  Misses  Dowd  called  "  regu- 
lars." They  included  Hatch,  the  photographer ;  an  old 
and  indigent  couple,  parents  of  a  farmer  whose  wife 
objected  so  vehemently  to  their  well-meant  efforts  to 
"  run  "  her  house  for  her  that  he  was  obliged  to  "  board 
'em  "  with  the  Dowd  girls,  an  arrangement  that  seemed 
to  satisfy  every  one  concerned  except  the  farmer  him- 
self, who  never  missed  an  opportunity  to  praise  the 
food  and  the  comforts  to  be  enjoyed  at  the  county 
"  poorhouse  "  when  he  paid  his  semi-annual  visit  to  the 
venerable  dependents ;  Mr.  Charlie  Webster,  the  rotund 
manager  of  the  grain  elevator,  who  spent  every  Satur- 
day might  and  Sunday  in  the  city  and  showed  up  for 
duty  on  Monday  with  pinkish  eyes  and  a  rather  tremu- 
lous whistle  that  was  supposed  to  be  reminiscent  of 
ecclesiastical  associations ;  Miss  Flora  Grady,  the  dress- 
maker; Doctor  Simpson,  the  dentist,  a  pale  young  man 
with  extremely  bad  teeth  and  a  habit  of  smiling,  even 
at  funerals;  Miss  Miller,  the  principal  of  the  school, 
who  was  content  with  a  small  room  over  the  kitchen  at 
ten  dollars  a  week,  thereby  permitting  her  to  save  some- 
thing out  of  her  salary,  which  was  fifty  dollars  a  month ; 
A.  Lincoln  Pollock,  the  editor,  owner  and  printer  of 
the  Weekly  Sim,  and  his  wife,  Maude  Baggs  Pol- 
lock, who  besides  contributing  a  poem  to  each  and  every 
issue  of  the  paper,  (over  her  own  signature),  collected 
news  and  society  items,  ran  the  postoffice  for  her  hus- 
band, (he  being  the  postmaster,),  and  taught  the  Bible 
Class  in  the  Presbyterian  Sunday-school,  as  well  as  offi- 
ciating as  president  and  secretary  of  the  Literary  So- 


DOWD'S  TAVERN  57 

ciety,  secretary  to  the  town  board,  secretary  of  the 
W.  C.  T.  U.,  secretary  of  the  Woman's  Foreign  Mis- 
sionary Society,  secretary  of  the  American  Soldiers' 
and  Sailors'  Relief  Fund,  secretary  of  the  Windom- 
ville  Improvement  Association,  secretary  of  the  Lady 
Maccabees,  and,  last  but  far  from  least,  secretary  of 
the  local  branch  of  the  Society  for  the  Preservation  of 
the  Redwood  Forests  of  California.  She  was  a  born 
secretary. 

A.  Lincoln  Pollock,  being  a  good  democrat  and  hold- 
ing office  under  a  democratic  administration,  had 
deemed  it  wise  to  abbreviate  his  first  name,  thereby  re- 
moving all  taint  of  republicanism.  He  reduced  Abraham 
to  an  initial,  but,  despite  his  supreme  struggle  for  dig- 
nity, was  forced  by  public  indolence  to  submit  to  a 
sharp  curtailment  of  his  middle  name.  He  was  known 
as  Link. 

The  Weekly  Swn  duly  reported  the  advent  of 
Colonel  Courtney  Thane,  of  New  York  and  London,  and 
gave  him  quite  a  "  send-off,"  at  the  same  time  getting 
in  a  good  word  for  the  "  excellent  hostelry  conducted 
by  the  Misses  Dowd,"  as  well  as  a  paragraph  congrat- 
ulating the  readers  of  the  Sun  on  the  "  scoop  "  that 
paper  had  obtained  over  the  "  alleged  "  newspapers  up 
at  the  county  seat.  "  If  you  want  the  news,  read  the 
Sun,"  was  the  slogan  at  the  top  of  the  editorial  col- 
umn on  the  second  page,  followed  by  a  line  in  parenthe- 
sis: ("If  you  want  the  Sun,  don't  put  off  till  to- 
morrow what  you  can  do  today.  Price  Three  Dollars  a 
Year  in  Advance.") 

All  of  the  boarders  sat  at  the  same  table  in  the  dining- 
room.  Punctuality  at  meals  was  obligatory.  Miss 
Jennie  Dowd  was  the  cook.  She  was  assisted  by  Miss 


58  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

Margaret  Slattery,  daughter  of  Martin  Slattery,  the 
grocer.  Miss  Mary  Dowd  had  charge  of  the  dining- 
room.  She  was  likewise  assisted  by  Miss  Slattery.  Be- 
tween meals  Miss  Slattery  did  the  dish-washing,  cham- 
ber-work, light  cleaning  and  "  straightening,"  and  still 
found  room  for  her  daily  exercise,  which  consisted  of 
half  a  dozen  turns  up  and  down  Main  Street  in  her  best 
frock.  Old  Jim  House  did  the  outside  chores  about  the 
place.  He  had  worked  at  Dowd's  Tavern  for  thirty- 
seven  years,  and  it  was  his  proud  boast  that  he  had 
never  missed  a  day's  work, — drunk  or  sober. 

The  new  guest  was  given  the  seat  of  honour  at  table. 
He  was  placed  between  Mrs.  Pollock  and  Miss  Flora 
Grady,  supplanting  Doctor  Simpson,  who  had  held  the 
honour  ever  since  Charlie  Webster's  unfortunate  miscal- 
culation as  to  the  durability  of  an  unfamiliar  brand 
of  bourbon  to  which  he  had  been  introduced  late  one 
Sunday  evening.  It  was  a  brand  that  wore  extremely 
well, — so  well,  in  fact,  that  when  he  appeared  for  din- 
ner at  noon  on  Monday  he  was  still  in  a  lachrymose 
condition  over  the  death  of  his  mother,  an  event  which 
took  place  when  he  was  barely  six  years  old.  Doctor 
Simpson  relinquished  the  seat  cheerfully.  He  had  held 
it  a  year  and  he  had  grown  extremely  tired  of  having 
to  lean  back  as  far  as  possible  in  his  chair  so  that 
Mrs.  Pollock  and  Miss  Grady  could  converse  unob- 
structedly  in  front  of  him,  a  position  that  called  for 
the  utmost  skill  and  deliberation  on  his  part,  especially 
when  it  came  to  conveying  soup  and  "  floating  island  " 
to  such  an  altitude.  (He  had  once  resorted  to  the  ex- 
pedient of  bending  over  until  his-  nose  was  almost  in  the 
plate,  so  that  they  might  talk  across  his  back,  but 


DOWD'S  TAVERN  59 

gave  it  up  when  Miss  Molly  Dowd  acridly  inquired  if 
he  smelt  anything  wrong  with  the  soup. ) 

Mr.  Hatch  invited  Courtney  down  to  the  studio  to 
have  his  photograph  taken,  free  of  charge ;  Mr.  Pollock 
subjected  him  to  a  long  interview  about  the  War;  Mr. 
Webster  notified  him  that  he  had  laid  in  a  small  stock 
just  prior  to  July  the  first  and  that  all  he  had  to  do 
was  to  "  say  the  word," — or  wink  if  it  wasn't  conven- 
ient to  speak;  Miss  Grady  told  him,  at  great  length, 
of  her  trip  to  New  York  in  1895,  and  inquired  about 
certain  landmarks  in  the  Metropolis, — such  as  the 
aquarium,  the  Hoffman  House,  Madison  Square,  Stew- 
art's Drygoods  Store,  Tiffany's  place, — revealing  a 
sort  of  lofty  nonchalance  in  being  able  to  speak  of 
things  she  had  seen  while  the  others  had  merely  read 
about  them ;  Mrs.  Pollock  had  him  write  in  her  auto- 
graph album,  and  wondered  if  he  would  not  consent 
to  give  a  talk  before  the  Literary  Society  at  its  next 
meeting ;  and  Margaret  Slattery  made  a  point  of  pass- 
ing things  to  him  first  at  meals,  going  so  far  as  to 
indicate  the  choicest  bits  of  **  white  meat,"  or  the  "  sec- 
ond joint,"  if  he  preferred  the  dark,  whenever  they 
had  chicken  for  dinner, — which  was  quite  often. 

Old  Mr.  Nichols,  (the  indigent  father),  remembered 
Courtney's  grandfather  very  well,  and,  being  apt  to 
repeat  himself,  told  and  retold  the  story  of  a  horse- 
trade  in  which  he  got  the  better  of  Silas  Thane.  Mrs. 
Nichols,  living  likewise  in  the  remote  past,  remembered 
being  in  his  grandmother's  Sunday-school  class,  and 
how  people  used  to  pity  the  poor  thing  because  Silas 
ran  around  considerable  after  other  women, — 'spe- 
cially a  lively-stableman's  wife  up  in  the  city, — and 


60  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

what  a  terrible  time  she  had  when  John  Robinson's 
Circus  came  to  town  a  little  while  before  her  first  child 
was  born  and  the  biggest  boa-constrictor  in  captivity 
escaped  and  eat  up  two  lambs  on  Silas's  farm  before 
it  went  to  sleep  and  was  shot  out  in  the  apple  orchard 
by  Jake  Billings.  She  often  wondered  whether  her 
worrying  about  that  snake  had  had  any  effect  on  the 
baby,  who,  it  appears,  ultimately  grew  up  and  became 
Courtney's  father.  The  young  man  smilingly  sought 
to  reassure  her,  but  after  twice  repeating  his  remark, 
looked  so  embarrassed  that  Mr.  Hatch  gloomily  an- 
nounced from  the  foot  of  the  table : 

"  She's  deef." 

Now,  as  to  Mr.  Courtney  Thane.  He  was  a  tall, 
spare  young  man,  very  erect  and  soldierly,  with  an  al- 
most unnoticeable  limp.  He  explained  this  limp  by 
confessing  that  he  had  got  into  the  habit  of  favouring 
his  left  leg,  which  had  been  injured  when  his  machine 
came  down  in  flames  a  sort  distance  back  of  the  lines 
during  a  vicious  gas  attack  by  the  enemy — (it  was 
on  this  occasion  that  he  was  "gassed"  while  drag- 
ging a  badly  wounded  comrade  to  a  place  of  safety) — 
but  that  the  member  was  quite  as  sound  as  ever  and 
it  was  silly  of  him  to  go  on  being  so  confounded  timid 
about  it,  especially  as  it  hadn't  been  anything  to  speak 
of  in  the  beginning, — nothing  more,  in  fact,  than  a 
cracked  knee  joint  and  a  trifling  fracture  of  the  ankle. 

His  hair  was  light  brown,  almost  straw-coloured,  and 
was  brushed  straight  back  from  the  forehead.  A  small, 
jaunty  moustache,  distinctly  English  in  character, 
adorned  his  upper  Up.  His  eyes  were  brown,  set  well 
back  under  a  perfectly  level,  rather  prominent  brow. 
His  mouth  was  wide  and  faintly  satirical;  his  chin  ag- 


DOWD'S  TAVERN  61 

gressively  square ;  his  nose  long  and  straight.  His  voice 
was  deep  and  pleasant,  and  he  spoke  with  what  Miss 
Miller  described  as  a  "  perfectly  fascinating  drawl." 
Mrs.  Pollock,  who  was  quite  an  extensive  reader  of 
novels  and  governed  her  conversation  accordingly  went 
so  far  as  to  say  that  he  was  "  the  sort  of  chap  that 
women  fall  in  love  with  easily," — and  advised  Miss 
Miller  to  keep  a  pretty  sharp  watch  on  her  heart, — a 
remark  that  drew  from  Miss  Miller  the  confession  that 
she  had  rejected  at  least  half  a  dozen  offers  of  mar- 
riage and  she  guessed  if  there  was  any  watching  to  be 
done  it  would  have  to  be  done  by  the  opposite  sex. 
(As  Miss  Miller  had  repeatedly  alluded  to  these  fruit- 
less masculine  manifestations,  Mrs.  Pollock  merely 
sniffed, — and  afterwards  confided  to  Miss  Molly  Dowd 
her  belief  that  if  any  one  had  ever  asked  Angie  Miller 
to  marry  him  she'd  be  a  grandmother  by  this  time.) 
From  this,  it  may  be  correctly  surmised  that  Miss  Miller 
was  no  longer  in  the  first  bloom  of  youth. 

Whenever  Courtney  appeared  on  Main  Street,  he 
was  the  centre  not  only  of  observation  but  of  active 
attention.  Nearly  every  one  had  some  form  of  greeting 
for  him.  Introductions  were  not  necessary.  Women  as 
well  as  men  passed  the  time  of  day  with  him,  and  not  a 
few  of  the  former  solicitously  paused  to  inquire  how  he 
was  feeling.  Young  girls  stared  at  him  and  blushed, 
young  boys  followed  his  progress  about  town  with  wide, 
worshipful  eyes, — for  was  he  not  a  hero  out  of  their 
cherished  romance?  He  had  to  hear  from  the  lips  of 
ancient  men  the  story  of  Antietam,  of  Chancellorsville 
and  of  Shiloh ;  eulogies  and  criticisms  of  Grant,  McClel- 
lan  and  Meade;  praise  for  the  enemy  chieftains,  Lee, 
Stonewall  Jackson  and  Johnston ;  comparisons  in  the 


62  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

matter  of  fatalities,  marksmanship,  generalship,  hard- 
ships and  all  such,  and  with  the  inevitable  conclusion 
that  the  Civil  War  was  the  greatest  war  ever  fought 
for  the  simple  reason  that  it  was  fought  by  men  and 
not  by  machinery. 

"  And,  what's  more,"  declared  old  Captain  House 
vigorously,  "  it  was  fit  entirely  by  Americans,  and  not 
by  every  dodgasted  nation  on  the  face  of  the  earth, 
no  two  of  'em  able  to  understand  a  blamed  word  of 
what  was  being  said  by  friend  er  foe."  "  And,"  added 
ex-Corporal  Grimes,  stamping  the  sidewalk  with  his  peg 
leg,  "  what's  more,  there  wasn't  ary  one  of  them  Johnny 
Rebs  that  couldn't  pick  off  a  squirrel  five  hundred 
yards  away  with  a  rifle — a  rifle,  mind  ye,  not  a  bat- 
tery of  machine  guns.  Every  time  they  was  a  fight,  big 
er  little,  we  used  to  stand  out  in  the  open  and  shoot 
at  each  other  like  soldiers — and  gentlemen — aimin' 
straight  at  the  feller  we'd  picked  out  to  kill.  They  tell 
me  they  was  more  men  shot  right  smack  between  the 
eyes  in  the  Civil  War  than  all  the  other  wars  put  to- 
gether. Yes-sir-^/  And  as  fer  r^-connoiterin',  why 
it  was  nothin'  for  our  men, — er  the  rebs,  either,  fer  that 
matter, — to  crawl  up  so  close  to  the  other  side's  camps 
that  they  could  smell  the  vittels  cookin', — and  I  re- 
member a  case  when  one  of  our  scouts,  bein'  so  over- 
come by  the  smell  of  a  fried  chicken,  snuck  right  up  and 
grabbed  it  offen  the  skillet  when  the  cook's  back  was 
turned,  and  got  away  with  it  safe,  too,  b'gosh!  " 


CHAPTER  V 

TEESPASS 

COURTNEY  never  was  without  the  heavy  English 
walking-stick  on  which  he  occasionally  leaned 
for  support.  He  took  long  strolls  in  the  coun- 
try, frequently  passing  the  Windom  place,  and  twice 
be  had  gone  as  far  as  the  railed-in  base  of  Quill's  Win- 
dow. From  the  footpath  at  the  bottom  he  could  look 
through  the  trees  up  to  the  bare  crest  of  the  rock.  The 
gate  through  the  high  fence  was  padlocked,  and  con- 
tained a  sign  with  the  curt  warning:  "No  Trespass." 
On  the  opposite  side  of  the  wide  strip  of  meadow-land, 
in  which  cattle  grazed  placidly,  he  could  see  the  aban- 
doned house  where  Alix  Crown  was  born, — a  colourless, 
weather-beaten,  two-storey  frame  building  with  faded 
green  window  shutters  and  a  high-pitched  roof  black- 
ened by  rain  and  rot.  Every  shutter  was  closed;  an 
atmosphere  of  utter  desolation  hung  over  the  place. 

Across  that  brown,  sunburnt  stretch  of  meadow-land 
when  it  was  white  and  cold,  old  David  Windom  had 
carried  the  stiff  body  of  Edward  Crown, — <and  return- 
ing had  borne  the  soft,  limp  figure  of  his  stricken  child. 
Courtney  permitted  his  fancy  to  indulge  in  calculation. 
He  followed  with  his  eye  what  must  have  been  the  path 
of  the  slayer  on  that  dreadful  night.  It  led,  no  doubt, 
to  the  spot  on  which  he  now  was  standing,  for  just  be- 
hind him  was  the  suggestion  of  a  narrow,  weed-lined 
63 


64  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

path  that  wormed  its  way  through  the  trees  toward  the 
top  of  the  great  rock.  He  decided  that  one  day  soon 
he  would  disregard  that  sign  on  the  gate,  and  climb 
up  to  the  strange  burial  place  of  Edward  Crown  and 
Alix  the  Second. 

He  had  tested  his  increasing  strength  and  endurance 
by  rowing  up  the  river  with  Rosabel  for  a  fair  view  of 
the  hole  in  the  face  of  the  rock — Quill's  Window.  It 
was  plainly  visible  from  the  river,  a  wide  black  gash  in 
the  almost  perpendicular  wall  that  reached  well  above 
the  fringe  of  trees  and  underbrush  along  the  steep  bank 
of  the  stream. 

He  tried  to  picture  Quill  as  he  sat  in  his  strange 
abode,  a  hundred  years  ago,  cowering  over  the  fire  or 
reading  perhaps  by  the  light  of  a  huge  old-fashioned 
lanthorn.  He  thought  of  him  hanging  by  the  neck  back 
in  the  dark  recess,  victim  either  of  his  own  conscience 
or  the  implacable  hatred  of  the  enemy  "  down  the 
river."  And  then  there  were  the  others  who  had  found 
death  in  the  heart  of  that  mysterious  cavern, — ugly 
death. 

He  wondered  what  the  interior  of  the  cave  was  like, 
and  whether  he  could  devise  some  means  of  entering  it. 
A  rope  ladder  attached  to  a  substantial  support  at  the 
top  of  the  cliff  would  afford  the  easiest  way  of  reaching 
the  mouth  of  the  cave, — in  fact,  he  recalled  that  Quill 
employed  some  such  means  of  descending  to  his  eerie 
home.  The  entrance  appeared  to  be  no  more  than 
twenty  feet  below  the  brow  of  the  cliff.  It  would  not 
even  be  a  hazardous  undertaking^  Besides,  if  Quill  and 
his  successors  were  able  to  go  up  and  down  that  wall 
safely  and  repeatedly,  why  not  he?  No  doubt  scores 
of  men, — perhaps  even  schoolboys  of  the  Tom  Sawyer 


TRESPASS  65 

type, — had  made  frequent  visits  to  the  cave.  He  knew 
he  would  be  disregarding  the  command  of  Alix  Crown, 
— a  command  that  all  people  respected  and  observed, — 
if  he  passed  the  barrier  and  climbed  to  the  top  of  the 
rock,  but  who,  after  all,  was  Alix  Crown  that  she  should 
say  "  no  trespass  "  to  the  world  at  large? 

The  thought  of  Edward  Crown  wedged  in  at  the  bot- 
tom of  Quill's  Chimney,  weighted  down  with  stones  and 
earth,  alone  served  as  an  obstacle  to  the  enterprise. 
He  shrank  from  certain  gruesome  possibilities, — such  as 
the  dislodgment  of  stones  at  the  bottom  of  the  crevice 
and  the  consequent  exposure  of  a  thing  that  would 
haunt  him  forever.  And  even  though  the  stones  re- 
mained in  place  there  would  still  remain  the  fact  that 
almost  within  arm's  length  was  imprisoned  the  crushed, 
distorted  remains  of  the  murdered  man. 

Toward  the  end  of  his  second  week  at  Dowd's  Tav- 
ern, he  set  out  to  climb  to  the  top  of  the  big  rock.  He 
had  no  intention  of  descending  to  the  cavern's  mouth 
on  this  occasion.  That  feat  was  to  be  reserved  for 
another  day.  Arriving  at  the  gate,  he  was  surprised 
and  gratified  to  discover  that  it  was  unlocked.  While 
it  was  latched,  the  padlock  and  chain  hung  loosely  from 
the  post  to  which  the  latter  was  attached.  Without 
hesitation,  he  opened  the  gate  and  strode  boldly  into 
proscribed  territory. 

The  ascent  was  gradual  at  first,  then  steep  and 
abrupt  for  a  matter  of  fifty  or  sixty  feet  to  the  bald 
summit  of  the  hill.  Once  at  the  top,  he  sat  down  pant- 
ing and  exhausted  upon  the  edge  of  the  shallow  fissure 
he  had  followed  as  a  path  up  the  rock,  and  again  his 
thoughts  went  back  to  the  night  of  the  murder.  This 
had  been  David  Windom's  route  to  the  top  of  the  hill. 


66  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

He  found  himself  discrediting  one  feature  at  least  of  the 
man's  confession.  Only  a  fabled  giant  could  have  car- 
ried the  body  of  a  man  up  that  steep,  tortuous  incline. 
Why,  he  was  exhausted,  and  he  had  borne  no  heavier 
burden  than  his  stout  walking-stick.  That  part  of 
Windom's  story  certainly  was  "  fishy." 

Presently  he  arose  and  strode  out  upon  the  rough, 
uneven  "  roof  "  of  the  height.  He  could  look  in  all  di- 
rections over  the  tops  of  the  trees  below.  The  sun  beat 
down  fiercely  upon  the  unsheltered  rock.  Off  to  the 
north  lay  the  pall  of  smoke  indicating  the  presence  of 
the  invisible  county  seat.  Thin,  anfractuous  highways 
and  dirt  roads  scarred  the  green  and  brown  landscape, 
and  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  were  to  be  seen  farm- 
houses and  barns  and  silos. 

Avoiding  the  significant  heap  of  rocks  near  the  centre 
of  the  little  plateau,  he  made  his  way  to  the  brink  of 
the  cliff  overlooking  the  river.  There  he  had  a  won- 
derful view  of  the  winding  stream,  the  harvest  fields,  the 
groves,  and  the  herds  in  the  far-reaching  stretches  of 
what  was  considered  the  greatest  corn  raising  "  belt " 
in  the  United  States.  Some  yards  back  from  the  edge 
of  the  cliff  he  discovered  the  now  thoroughly  rotted 
section  of  a  tree  trunk,  eight  or  ten  inches  in  diameter, 
driven  deeply  into  a  narrow  fissure  and  rendered  abso- 
lutely immovable  by  a  solid  mass  of  stones  and  gravel 
that  completely  closed  the  remainder  of  the  crevice.  He 
was  right  in  surmising  that  this  was  the  support  from 
which  Quill's  rope  or  vine  ladder  was  suspended  a  hun- 
dred years  ago.  Nearby  were  two  heavy  iron  rings  at- 
tached to  standards  sunk  firmly -into  the  rock,  a  modern 
improvement  on  the  hermit's  crude  device.  (He  after- 
wards learned  that  David  Windom,  when  a  lad  of  fif- 


TRESPASS  67 

teen,  had  drilled  the  holes  in  the  rock  and  imbedded  the 
stout  iron  shafts,  so  that  he  might  safely  descend 
to  the  mouth  of  the  cave.) 

Turning  back,  he  approached  the  heap  of  boulders 
that  covered  the  grave  of  Edward  and  Alix  Crown.  No 
visible  sign  of  the  cleft  in  the  surface  of  the  rock  re- 
mained. Six  huge  boulders,  arranged  in  a  row,  rose 
above  a  carefully  made  bed  of  stones  held  in  place  by  a 
low,  soundly  mortared  wall. 

Chiselled  on  one  of  the  end  boulders  was  the  name  of 
Alix  Windom  Crown,  with  the  date  of  her  birth  and 
her  death,  with  the  line:  "  Rock  of  Ages  Cleft  for  Me." 
Below  this  inscription  was  the  recently  carved  name  of 
Edward  Joseph  Crown,  Born  July  7,  1871.  Died 
March  22,  1895.  Three  words  followed  this.  They 
were  "  Abide  With  Me." 


II 

Thane  stood  for  a  long  time  looking  at  the  pile.  He 
was  not  sentimental.  His  life  had  been  spent  in  an  ir- 
reverent city,  among  people  hardened  by  pleasure  or 
coarsened  by  greed.  His  thoughts  as  he  stood  there 
were  not  of  the  unhappy  pair  who  reposed  beneath  those 
ugly  rocks ;  they  were  of  the  far-off  tragedy  that  had 
brought  them  to  this  singular  resting-place.  The  fact 
that  this  was  a  grave,  sacred  in  the  same  sense  that  his 
father's  grave  in  Woodlawn  was  supposed  to  be  sacred 
to  him  and  to  his  mother,  was  overlooked  in  the  silent 
contemplation  of  what  an  even  less  sophisticated  person 
might  have  been  justified  in  describing  as  a  "  freak." 
Nothing  was  farther  from  his  mind,  however,  than  the 
desire  or  impulse  to  be  disrespectful.  And  yet,  as  he 


68  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

was  about  to  turn  away  from  this  sombre  pile,  he  leaned 
over  and  struck  a  match  on  one  of  the  huge  boulders. 
As  he  was  conveying  the  lighted  sulphur  match, — with 
which  Dowd's  Tavern  abounded, — to  the  cigarette  that 
hung  limply  from  his  lips,  he  was  startled  by  a  sharp, 
almost  agonized  cry.  It  seemed  to  come  from  nowhere. 
He  experienced  the  uncanny  feeling  that  a  ghost, — the 
ghost  that  haunted  Quill's  Window, — standing  guard 
over  the  mound,  had  cried  out  under  the  pain  inflicted 
by  that  profane  match. 

Even  as  he  turned  to  search  the  blazing,  sunlit  rock 
with  apprehensive  eyes,  a  voice,  shrill  with  anger,  flung 
these  words  at  him : 

"  What  are  you  doing  up  here?  " 

His  gaze  fell  upon  the  speaker,  standing  stockstill  in 
the  cloven  path  below  him,  not  twenty  feet  away.  In 
his  relief,  he  laughed.  He  beheld  a  slim  figure  in  riding- 
togs.  Nothing  formidable  or  ghostlike  in  that !  Never- 
theless, a  pair  of  dark  blue  eyes  transfixed  him  with 
indignation.  They  looked  out  from  under  the  rim  of 
a  black  sailor  hat,  and  they  were  wide  and  inimical. 

"  Did  you  not  see  that  sign  on  the  gate?  "  demanded 
the  girl. 

"  I  did,"  he  replied,  still  smiling  as  he  removed  his 
hat, — one  of  Knox's  panamas.  "  And  I  owe  you  an 
apology." 

She  advanced  to  the  top.  He  noted  the  riding-crop 
gripped  rather  firmly  in  her  clenched  hand. 

"  No  one  is  permitted  to  come  up  here,"  she  an- 
nounced, stopping  a  few  feet  away.  She  was  quite  tall 
and  straight.  She  panted  a  little  from  the  climb  up  the 
steep.  He  saw  her  bosom  rise  and  fall  under  the  khaki 


TRESPASS  69 

jacket;  her  nostrils  were  slightly  distended.  In  that 
first  glimpse  of  her,  he  took  in  the  graceful,  perfect 
figure;  the  lovely,  brilliant  face;  the  glorious  though 
unsmiling  eyes.  "  You  must  leave  at  once.  This  is 
private  property.  Go,  please." 

"  I  cannot  go  before  telling  you  how  rotten  I  feel 
for  striking  that  match.  I  beg  of  you,  Miss  Crown, — 
you  are  Miss  Crown? — I  can  only  ask  you  to  believe 
that  it  was  not  a  conscious  act  of  desecration.  It  was 
sheer  thoughtlessness.  I  would  not  have  done  it  for  the 
world  if  I  had—  " 

"  It  is  not  necessary  for  you  to  explain,"  she  broke 
in  curtly.  "  I  saw  what  you  did, — and  it  is  just  be- 
cause of  such  as  you  that  this  spot  is  forbidden  ground. 
Idle  curiosity,  utter  disregard  for  the  sacredness  of 
that  lonely  grave, — Oh,  you  need  not  attempt  to  deny 
it.  You  are  a  stranger  here,  but  that  is  no  excuse  for 
your  passing  through  that  gate.  I  am  Miss  Crown. 
This  hill  belongs  to  me.  It  was  I  who  had  that  fence 
put  up  and  it  was  I  who  directed  the  sign  to  be  put  on 
the  gate.  They  are  meant  for  strangers  as  well  as  for 
friends.  It  was  not  thoughtlessness  that  brought  you 
up  here.  You  thought  a  long  time  before  you  came. 
Will  you  be  good  enough  to  go  ?  " 

He  flushed  under  the  scornful  dismissal. 

"  The  gate  was  unlocked —  "  he  began. 

"  That  doesn't  matter.  It  might  have  been  wide 
open,  sir, — but  that  did  not  grant  you  any  special 
privileges." 

"  I  can  only  ask  your  pardon,  Miss  Crown,  and  de- 
part in  disgrace,"  said  he,  quite  humbly.  As  he  started 
down  the  path,  he  paused  to  add :  "  I  did  not  know  you 


70  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

had  returned.  I  daresay  I  should  have  been  less  ven- 
turesome had  I  known  you  were  in  the  neighbourhood.'* 

The  thinly  veiled  sarcasm  did  not  escape  her. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  the  young  man  from  New  York 
that  every  one  is  talking  about.  That  may  account  for 
your  ignorance.  In  order  that  you  may  not  feel  called 
upon  to  visit  this  place  again  to  satisfy  your  curiosity, 
I  will  point  out  to  you  the  objects  of  interest.  This 
pile  of  rocks  marks  the  grave  of  my  father  and  mother. 
The  dates  speak  for  themselves.  You  may  have  noticed 
them  when  you  scratched  your  match  just  above  my 
mother's  name.  My  father  was  murdered  by  my  grand- 
father before  I  was  born.  My  mother  died  on  the  day 
I  was  born.  I  never  saw  them.  I  do  not  love  them, 
because  I  never  knew  them.  But  I  do  respect  and 
honour  them.  They  were  good  people.  I  have  no 
reason  to  be  ashamed  of  them.  If  you  will  look  out 
over  those  trees  and  across  that  pasture,  you  will  see 
the  house  in  which  my  mother  died  and  where  I  was 
born.  Directly  in  front  of  the  iittle  porch  my  father 
died  as  the  result  of  a  blow  delivered  by  my  grand- 
father. As  to  the  disposal  of  the  body,  you  may  ob- 
tain all  the  information  necessary  from  Alaska  Spigg, 
our  town  librarian,  who  will  be  more  than  delighted  to 
supply  you  with  all  the  ghastly  details.  To  your  right 
is  the  post  to  which  a  man  named  Quill  attached  his 
ladder  in  order  to  reach  the  cave  in  the  face  of  this 
rock, — where  he  lived  for  many  years.  This  is  the 
path  leading  down  to  the  gate,  which  you  will  still  find 
unlocked.  It  will  not  be  necessary  for  you  to  come  up 
here  again.  You  have  seen  air  there  is  to  see." 

With  that,  she  deliberately  turned  her  back  on  him 
and  walked  toward  the  edge  of  the  cliff.  He  stared 


TRESPASS  71 

after  her  for  a  few  seconds,  his  lips  parted  as  if  to 
speak,  and  then,  as  the  flush  of  mortification  deepened 
in  his  cheeks,  he  began  picking  his  way  rather  blindly 
down  the  steep  path. 

He  was  never  to  forget  his  first  encounter  with  Alix 
the  Third. 


CHAPTER  VI 

CHARLIE    WEBSTER    ENTERTAINS 

THAT  evening  at  the  supper  table,  Mr.  Pollock 
politely  informed  him  that  Alix  Crown  had  re- 
turned from  Michigan,  looking  as  fit  as  a  fiddle. 

"  You've  been  so  sort  of  curious  about  her,  Court?  " 
(it  had  not  taken  the  male  boarders  long  to  dispense 
with  formalities),  "  that  I  thought  you'd  be  interested 
in  knowing  that  she's  home.  Got  back  last  evening.  Her 
Packard  automobile  met  her  at  the  depot  up  in  the  city. 
You'll  know  her  when  you  see  her.  Tall  girl  and  fairly 
good-looking.  Puts  on  an  awful  lot  of  '  dog.'  What  is 
it  you  fellows  in  the  Army  call  it?  Swunk?  " 

"  Swank,"  said  Courtney,  rather  shortly.  He  was 
still  smarting  under  the  sting  of  his  afternoon's  ex- 
perience. 

"  Lemme  help  you  to  some  more  squash,  Mr.  Thane,'* 
said  Margaret  Slattery  in  his  ear.  "  And  another 
biscuit." 

"  Thank  you,  no,"  said  he. 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  appetite?"  she 
demanded.  "  You  ain't  hardly  touched  anything  this 
evenin'.  Sick? " 

"  I'm  not  hungry,  Margaret." 

"  Been  out  in  the  sun  too  much,  that's  what's  the 
matter  with  you.  First  thing  you  know  you'll  get  a 
sunstroke,  and  then!  My  Uncle  Mike  was  sunstruck 
when  I  was —  " 

73 


CHARLIE  WEBSTER  ENTERTAINS   73 

"  Pass  me  the  biscuits,  Maggie,  and  don't  be  all  night 
about  it,"  put  in  Mr.  Webster.  "  I'm  hungry,  even  if 
Court  isn't.  I  can  distinctly  remember  when  you  used 
to  pass  everything  to  me  first,  and  almost  stuff  it —  " 

"  Yes,  and  she  used  to  do  the  same  for  me  before  you 
shaved  off  your  chin  whiskers,  Charlie,"  said  Mr.  Hatch 
gloomily.  "  How  times  have  changed." 

"  It  ain't  the  times  that's  changed,"  said  Margaret. 
"  It's  you  men.  You  ain't  what  you  used  to  be,  lemme 
tell  you  that." 

"  True,— oh  so  true,"  lamented  Mr.  Webster.  "  I 
used  to  be  nice  and  thin  and  graceful  before  you  began 
showering  me  with  attention.  Now  look  at  me.  You 
put  something  like  fifty  pounds  on  me,  and  then  you 
desert  me.  I  was  a  handsome  feller  when  I  first  came 
here,  wasn't  I,  Flora?  I  leave  it  to  you  if  I  wasn't." 

"  I  don't  remember  how  you  looked  when  you  first 
came  here,"  replied  Miss  Grady  loftily. 

**  Can  yo*u  beat  that?  "  cried  Charlie  to  Courtney 
across  the  table.  "  And  she  used  to  say  I  was  the 
handsomest  young  feller  she'd  ever  laid  eyes  on.  Used 
to  say  I  looked  like, — who  was  it  you  used  to  say  I 
looked  like,  Flora?  " 

"  The  only  thing  I  ever  said  you  looked  like  was  a 
mud  fence,  Charlie  Webster." 

"What  did  she  say,  Pa?  Hey?"  This  from  old 
Mrs.  Nichols,  holding  her  hand  to  her  ear.  "  What 
are  they  laughing  at?  " 

"  She  says  Charlie  looks  like  a  mud  fence,"  shouted 
old  Mr.  Nichols,  his  lips  close  to  her  ear. 

"  His  pants?    What  about  his  pants?  " 

This  time  Courtney  joined  in  the  laugh. 

After  supper  he  sat  on  the  front  porch  with  the 


74  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

Pollocks  and  Miss  Grady.  It  was  a  warm,  starry  night. 
Charlie  Webster  and  Doc  Simpson  had  strolled  off 
down  the  street.  Mr.  Hatch  and  Miss  Miller  sat  in 
the  parlour. 

"  She's  going  to  land  Furman  Hatch,  sure  as  you're 
a  foot  high,"  confided  Mr.  Pollock,  with  a  significant 
jerk  of  his  head  in  the  direction  of  the  parlour. 

"  Heaven  knows  she's  been  trying  long  enough,"  said 
JMiss  Grady.  "  I  heard  him  ask  Doc  and  Charlie  to 
wait  for  him,  but  she  nabbed  him  before  he  could  get 
out.  Now  he's  got  to  sit  in  there  and  listen  to  her  tell 
about  how  interested  she  is  in  art, — and  him  just  dyin' 
for  a  smoke.  Why,  there's  Alix  Crown  now.  She's 
comin'  in  here." 

A  big  touring  car  drew  up  to  the  sidewalk  in  front 
of  the  Tavern.  Miss  Crown  sprang  lightly  out  of  the 
jseat  beside  the  chauffeur  and  came  up  the  steps. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Pollock?  Hello,  Flora.  Good 
-evening,  Mr.  Editor,"  was  her  cheery  greeting  as  she 
passed  by  and  entered  the  house. 

"  She  comes  around  every  once  in  a  while  and  takes 
the  Dowd  girls  out  riding  in  her  car,"  explained  Mrs. 
Pollock. 

"  Mighty  nice  of  her,"  said  Mr.  Pollock,  taking  his 
feet  down  from  the  porch-rail  and  carefully  brushing 
the  cigar  ashes  off  of  his  coat  sleeve.  "  Takes  old 
Alaska  Spigg  out  too,  and  the  Nicholses,  and —  " 

«  We've  been  out  with  her  a  great  many  times,"  broke 
in  Mrs.  Pollock.  "  I  think  a  Packard  is  a  wonderful 
car,  don't  you,  Mr.  Thane?  So  smooth  and —  " 

"  I  think  I'll  take  a  little  'stroll,"  said  Courtney 
abruptly ;  and  snatching  up  his  hat  from  the  floor  be- 
side his  chair  he  hurried  down  the  steps. 


CHARLIE  WEBSTER  ENTERTAINS        75 

She  had  not  even  glanced  at  him  as  she  crossed  the 
porch.  He  had  the  very  uneasy  conviction  that  so  far 
as  she  was  concerned  he  might  just  as  well  not  have 
been  there  at  all.  In  the  early  dusk,  her  face  was 
clearly  revealed  to  him.  There  was  nothing  cold  or  un- 
friendly about  it  now.  Instead,  her  smile  was  radiant ; 
her  eyes, — even  in  the  subdued  light, — glowed  with 
pleasure.  Her  voice  was  clear  and  soft  and  singularly 
appealing.  In  the  afternoon's  encounter  he  had  been 
struck  by  its  unexpected  combination  of  English  and 
American  qualities;  the  sharp  querulousness  of  the 
English  and  the  melodious  drawl  of  the  American  were 
strangely  blended,  and  although  there  had  been  casti- 
gation  in  her  words  and  manner,  he  took  away  with  him 
the  disturbing  memory  of  a  voice  he  was  never  to  for- 
get. And  now  he  had  seen  the  smile  that  even  the  most 
envious  of  her  kind  described  as  "  heavenly."  It  was 
broad  and  wholesome  and  genuine.  There  was  a  flash  of 
white,  even  teeth  between  warm  red  lips,  a  gleam  of 
merriment  in  the  half-closed  eyes,  a  gay  tilt  to  the 
bare,  shapely  head.  Her  dark  hair  was  coiled  neatly, 
and  the  ears  were  exposed.  He  liked  her  ears.  He  re- 
membered them  as  he  had  seen  them  in  the  afternoon, 
fairly  large,  shapely  and  close  to  the  head.  No  need 
for  her  to  follow  the  prevailing  fashion  of  the  day !  She 
had  no  reason  to  hide  her  ears  beneath  a  mat  of  hair. 

In  the  evening  glow  her  face  was  gloriously  beautiful, 
— clear-cut  as  a  cameo,  warm  as  a  rose.  It  was  no 
longer  clouded  with  anger.  She  seemed  taller.  The 
smart  riding  costume  had  brought  her  trim  figure  into 
direct  contrast  with  his  own  height  and  breadth,  and 
she  had  looked  like  a  slim,  half-grown  boy  beside  his 
six  feet  and  over.  Now,  in  her  black  and  white  checked 


76  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

sport  skirt  and  dark  sweater  jacket,  she  was  revealed 
as  a  woman  quite  well  above  the  average  height. 

He  was  standing  in  front  of  the  drug  store  when  the 
big  car  went  by  a  few  minutes  later,  filled  with  people. 
She  was  driving,  the  chauffeur  sitting  in  the  seat  beside 
her.  In  the  tonneau  he  observed  the  two  Dowd  sisters, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pollock  and  Flora  Grady. 

As  the  car  whizzed  by,  A.  Lincoln  Pollock  espied  him. 
Waving  his  hand  triumphantly,  the  editor  called  out : 

"Hello,  Court!" 

The  object  of  this  genial  shout  did  not  respond  by 
word  or  action.  He  looked  to  see  if  the  girl  at  the  wheel 
turned  her  head  for  a  glance  in  his  direction.  She  did 
not,  and  he  experienced  a  fresh  twinge  of  annoyance. 
He  muttered  something  under  his  breath.  The  car  dis- 
appeared around  a  bend  a»  he  turned  to  enter  the  store. 

"That  was  Alix  Crown,  Court,"  remarked  Charlie 
Webster  from  the  doorway.  "  Little  too  dark  to  get 
a  good  look  at  her,  but  wait  till  she  flashes  across  you 
in  broad  daylight  some  time.  She'll  make  you  forgejt 
all  those  Fifth  Avenue  skirts  so  quick  your  head'll 
swim." 

"  Is  that  so  ?  "  retorted  Courtney,  allowing  rancour 
to  get  the  better  of  fairness.  Down  in  his  heart  he  had 
said  that  Alix  Crown  was  the  loveliest  girl  he  had  ever 
seen.  "  What  do  you  know  about  Fifth  Avenue?  " 

Charlie  Webster  grinned  amiably.  He  was  not  of- 
fended by  the  other's  tone. 

"  Well,  I've  seen  it  in  the  movies,"  he  explained. 
"  What  are  you  sore  about  ?  " 

"  Sore?  I'm  not  sore.  What  put  that  into  your 
head?" 


CHARLIE  WEBSTER  ENTERTAINS       77 

The  rotund  superintendent  of  the  elevator  fanned 
himself  lazily  with  his  straw  hat. 

"  If  I  was  fifteen  years  younger  and  fifty  pounds 
lighter,"  said  he,  "  I'd  be  sore  too.  But  what's  the  use 
of  a  fat  old  slob  like  me  getting  peeved  because  Miss 
Alix  Crown  don't  happen  to  notice  me?  Oh,  we're  great 
friends  and  all  that,  mind  you,  and  she  thinks  a  lot  of 
me, — as  manager  of  her  grain  elevator.  Same  as  she 
thinks  a  lot  of  Jim  Bagley,  her  superintendent, — and 
Ed  Stevens,  her  chauffeur,  and  so  on.  Now,  as  for  you, 
it's  different.  You're  from  New  York  and  it  goes 
against  the  grain  to  be  overlooked,  you  might  say,  by 
a  girl  from  Indiana.  Oh,  I  know  what  you  New  Yorkers 
think  of  Indiana, — and  all  that  therein  is,  as  the  Scrip- 
tures would  say.  You  think  that  nothing  but  boobs  and 
corn-fed  squaws  come  from  Indiana,  but  if  you  hang 
around  long  enough  you'll  find  you're  mistaken.  This 
state  is  full  of  girls  like  Alix  Crown, — bright,  smart, 
good-looking  girls  that  have  been  a  hell  of  a  ways 
farther  east  than  New  York.  Of  course,  there  are 
boobs  like  me  and  Doc  Simpson  and  Tintype  Hatch 
who  get  up  to  Chicago  once  every  three  or  four  years 
and  have  to  sew  our  return  trip  tickets  inside  our  belly- 
bands  so's  we  can  be  sure  of  getting  back  home  after 
Chicago  gets  through  admiring  us,  but  now  since  pro- 
hibition has  come  in  I  don't  know  but  what  we're  as 
bright  and  clever  as  anybody  else.  Most  of  the  fellers 
I've  run  across  in  Chicago  seem  to  be  brightest  just 
after  they  change  feet  on  the  rail  and  ask  the  bartender 
if  he  knows  how  to  make  a  cucumber  cocktail,  or  some- 
thing else  as  clever  as  that.  But  that  ain't  what  we 
were  talking  about.  We  were  talking  about — " 


78  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"  I  wasn't  talking  about  anything,"  interrupted 
Courtney. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  were,"  said  Charlie.  "  Not  out  loud, 
of  course, — but  talking  just  the  same.  You  were  talk- 
ing about  Alix  Crown  and  the  way  she  forgot  to  invite 
you  to  take  a  ride  with  the  rest  of —  " 

"  See  here,  Webster, — are  you  trying  to  be  of- 
fensive? " 

"Offensive?  Lord,  no!  I'm  just  telling  you,  that's 
all.  On  the  level  now,  am  I  right  or  wrong?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  Miss  Crown,"  replied  Thane  stiffly. 
"  Why  should  I  expect  her  to  ask  me, — a  total  stranger, 
— to  go  out  in  her  car?  " 

"  Didn't  Maude  Pollock  introduce  you  a  while  ago?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  other  succinctly. 

"Well,  by  gosh,  that  ain't  like  Maude,"  exclaimed 
Charlie.  "  I'd  'a'  bet  two  dollars  she  said  *  I  want  to 
present  my  friend  from  New  York,  Mr.  Courtney 
Thane,  the  distinguished  aviator,  Miss  Crown,'  or  some- 
thing like  that.  I  can't  understand  Maude  missing  a 
chance  like  that.  She  just  loves  it." 

Courtney  smiled.  "I  daresay  'she  wasn't  quick 
enough,"  he  said  drily.  "  Miss  Crown  was  in  a  hurry. 
And  I  left  before  she  came  out  of  the  house.  Now  is 
your  curiosity  satisfied?" 

"  Absolutely,"  said  Charlie.  "  Now  I'll  sleep  soundly 
tonight.  I  was  afraid  the  darned  thing  would  keep  me 
awake  all  night.  Remember  me  saying  I  had  a  small 
stock  hid  away  up  in  my  room?  What  say  to  going 
up, — now  that  the  coast  is  clear, — and  having  a  nip 
or  two?" 

"  No,  thanks,   old  man.     I  don't   drink.      Doctor's 


CHARLIE  WEBSTER  ENTERTAINS        79 

orders.     Besides,  I've  got  some  letters  to  write.     I'll 
walk  home  with  you  if  you're  ready  to  go." 

II 

Mr.  Webster  shook  his  head  sadly.  "  That's  the  one 
drawback  to  livin'  in  Windomville,"  he  said.  "  People 
either  want  to  drink  too  much  or  they  don't  want  to 
drink  at  all.  Nobody  wants  to  drink  in  moderation. 
Now,  here's  you,  for  instance.  You  look  like  a  feller 
that  could  kiss  a  highball  or  two  without  compromising 
yourself,  and  there's  Hatch  that  has  to  hold  his  nose 
so's  he  won't  get  drunk  if  he  comes  within  ten  feet  of  a 
glass  of  whiskey."  They  were  strolling  slowly  toward 
the  Tavern.  "  Now  you  up  and  claim  you're  on  the 
water  wagon.  I'd  been  counting  on  you,  Court, — I 
certainly  had.  The  last  time  I  took  Hatch  and  Doc 
Simpson  up  to  my  room, — that  was  on  the  Fourth  of 
Jast  July, — I  had  to  sleep  on  the  floor.  Course,  if  I 
was  skinny  like  Doc  and  Hatch  that  wouldn't  have  been 
necessary.  But  I  can't  bear  sleepin'  three  in  a  bed. 
Doctor's  orders,  eh?  That  comes  of  livin'  in  New  York. 
There  ain't  a  doctor  in  Indiana  that  would  stoop  so 
low  as  that, — not  one.  Look  at  old  man  Nichols.  He's 
eighty-two  years  old  and  up  to  about  a  year  ago  he 
never  missed  a  day  without  taking  a  couple  o'  swigs  of 
rye.  He  swears  he  wouldn't  have  lived  to  be  more  than 
seventy-five  if  he  hadn't  taken  his  daily  nip.  That 
shows  how  smart  and  sensible  our  doctors  are  out  here. 
They—" 

"  By  the  way,  Mrs.  Nichols  appears  to  be  a  remark- 
ably well-preserved  old  lady, — aside  from  her  hearing. 
How  old  is  she?" 


80  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"  Eighty-three.     Wonderful  old  woman." 

"  I  suppose  she  has  always  had  her  daily  swig  of 
rye." 

Charlie  Webster  was  silent  for  a  moment.  He  had 
to  think.  This  was  a  very  serious  and  unexpected  com- 
plication. 

"  What  did  you  say?  "  he  inquired,  fencing  for  time. 

"  Has  she  always  been  a  steady  drinker,  like  the  old 
man?" 

Charlie  was  a  gentleman.     He  sighed. 

"  I  guess  it's  time  to  change  the  subject,"  he  said. 
"  The  only  way  you  could  get  a  spoonful  of  whiskey 
down  that  old  woman  would  be  to  chloroform  her.  If 
I'm  any  good  at  guessin',  she'll  outlive  the  old  man 
by  ten  years, — so  what's  the  sense  of  me  preachin'  to 
you  about  the  life  preserving  virtues  of  booze?  Oh, 
Lordy !  There's  another  of  my  best  arguments  knocked 
galley-west.  It's  no  use.  I've  been  playing  old  man 
Nichols  for  nearly  fifteen  years  as  a  bright  and  shining 
light,  and  he  turns  out  to  be  nothing  but  a  busted  flush. 
She's  had  eleven  children  and  he's  never  had  anything 
worse  than  a  headache,  and,  by  gosh,  he's  hangin'  onto 
her  with  both  hands  for  support  to  keep  his  other  foot 
from  slippin'  into  the  grave.  But," — and  here  his  face 
brightened  suddenly, — "  there's  one  thing  to  be  said, 
Court.  She  didn't  consult  any  darned  fool  doctor 
about  it." 

Courtney  was  ashamed  of  his  churlishness  toward  this 
good-natured  little  man. 

"  Say  no  more,  Charlie.  I'll  break  my  rule  this  once 
if  it  will  make  you  feel  any  better.  One  little  drink, 
that's  all, — in  spite  of  the  doctor.  He's  a  long  way 
off,  and  I  daresay  he'll  never  know  the  difference.  Lead 


CHARLIE  WEBSTER  ENTERTAINS        81 

the  way,  old  chap.  Anything  to  cheer  up  a  disconso- 
late comrade." 

A  few  minutes  later  they  were  in  Webster's  room, 
second  floor  back.  The  highly  gratified  host  had 
lighted  the  kerosene  lamp  on  the  table  in  the  centre  of 
the  room,  and  pulled  down  the  window  shades.  Then, 
putting  his  fingers  to  his  lips  to  enjoin  silence,  he  tip- 
toed to  the  door  and  threw  it  open  suddenly.  After 
peering  into  the  hall  and  listening  intently  for  a  mo- 
ment, he  cautiously  closed  it  again. 

"  All's  well,  as  the  watchman  says  at  midnight,"  he 
remarked,  as  he  drew  his  key  ring  from  his  hip  pocket 
and  selected  a  key  with  unerring  precision  from  the 
extensive  assortment.  "  I  always  do  that,"  he  added. 
"  I  don't  suppose  it  was  necessary  tonight,  because 
Angie  Miller  has  got  Hatch  where  he  can't  possibly 
escape.  Long  as  she  knows  where  he  is,  she  don't  do 
much  snooping.  She  used  to  be  the  same  way  with  me, 
— and  Doc,  too,  for  that  matter.  Poor  Hatch, — set- 
ting down  there  in  the  parlour, — listening  to  her  talk 
about  birds  and  flowers  and  trying  to  help  her  guess 
what  she's  going  to  give  him  for  next  Christmas.  It's 
hell  to  be  a  bachelor,  Court." 

He  unlocked  a  trunk  in  the  corner  of  the  room,  and 
after  lifting  out  two  trays  produced  a  half  empty 
whiskey  bottle. 

"  I  had  a  dozen  of  these  to  begin  with,"  said  he, 
holding  the  bottle  up  to  the  light.  "  Dollar  sixty  a 
quart.  Quite  a  nifty  little  stock,  eh?  " 

"Is  that  all  you  have  left?" 

Charlie  scratched  his  ear  reflectively. 

"  Well,  you  see,  I've  had  a  good  deal  of  toothache 
lately,"  he  announced.  "  And  as  soon  as  Doc  Simpson 


82  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

and  Hatch  found  out  about  it,  they  begin  to  complain 
about  their  teeth  achin'  too.  Seemed  to  be  a  sort  of 
epidemic  of  toothache,  Court.  Nothing  like  whiskey 
for  the  toothache,  you  know." 

"  But  Simpson  is  a  dentist.  Why  don't  you  have  him 
treat  your  teeth?" 

"  Seems  as  though  he'd  sooner  have  me  treat  his," 
said  Charlie,  with  a  slight  grimace.  Rummaging  about 
in  the  top  tray  of  the  trunk,  he  produced  a  couple  of 
bar  glasses,  which  he  carefully  rinsed  at  the  washstand. 
"  Tastes  better  when  you  drink  it  out  of  a  regular 
glass,"  he  explained.  "  Always  seems  sort  of  cowardly 
to  me  to  take  it  with  water, — almost  as  if  you  were 
trying  to  drown  it  so's  it  won't  be  able  to  bite  back 
when  you  tackle  it.  Needn't  mind  sayin'  *  when.'  The 
glass  holds  just  so  much,  and  I  know  enough  to  stop 
when  it  begins  to  run  over.  Well!  Here's  hoping 
your  toothache  will  be  better  in  the  morning,  Court." 

"  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  rob  you  like  this, 
Charlie,—  " 

"  Lord,  man,  you're  not  robbing  me.  If  you're  rob- 
bing anybody,  it's  Doc  Simpson, — and  he's  been  abso- 
lutely free  from  toothache  ever  since  I  told  him  this 
room  was  dry.  Excuse  me  a  second,  Court.  I  always 
propose  a  toast  before  I  take  a  drink  up  here.  Here's 
to  Miss  Alix  Crown,  the  finest  girl  in  the  U.  S.  A.,  and 
the  best  boss  a  man  ever  had.  Course  I've  never  said 
that  in  a  saloon,  but  up  here  it's  different, — and  kind 
of  sacred." 

"  I  usually  make  a  wry  face  when  I  drink  it  neat  like 
this,"  said  Courtney. 

"  You'll  like  her  just  as  well  as  I  do  when  you  get 
to  know  her,  boy.  I've  known  her  since  she  was  a 


CHARLIE  WEBSTER  ENTERTAINS       83 

little  kid, — long  before  she  was  sent  abroad, — and  she's 
the  salt  of  the  earth.  That's  one  thing  on  which  Doc 
and  Hatch  and  me  always  agree.  We  differ  on  most 
everything  else,  but — well,  as  I  was  saying,  you  wait 
till  you  get  to  know  her." 

He  tossed  off  the  whiskey  in  one  prodigious  gulp, 
smacked  his  lips,  and  then  stood  watching  his  guest 
drink  his. 

Tears  came  into  Courtney's  eyes  as  he  drained  the 
last  drop  of  the  fiery  liquid.  A  shudder  distorted  his 
face. 

"Pretty  hot  stuff,  eh?"  observed  Charlie  sympa- 
thetically. 

Courtney's  reply  was  a  nod  of  the  head,  speech  being 
denied  him. 

"Don't  try  to  talk  yet,"  said  Charlie,  as  if  ad- 
monishing a  child  who  has  choked  on  a  swallow  of  water. 
"  Anyhow,"  he  went  on  quaintly,  after  a  moment,  "  it 
makes  you  forget  all  about  your  toothache,  don't  it  ?  " 

The  other  cleared  his  throat  raucously.  "  Now  I 
know  why  the  redskins  call  it  fire  water,"  said  he. 

"  Have  another?  " 

"  Not  on  your  life,"  exclaimed  the  New  Yorker. 
"  Put  it  back  in  the  trunk, — and  lock  it  up !  " 

"  No  sooner  said  than  done,"  said  Charlie  amicably. 
"  Now  I'll  pull  up  the  shades  and  let  in  a  little  of  our 
well-known  hoosier  atmosphere, — and  some  real  moon- 
shine. Hello!  There  go  Hatch  and  Angle,  out  for  a 
stroll.  Yep!  She's  got  him  headed  toward  Foster's 
soda  water  joint.  I'll  bet  every  tooth  in  his  head  is 
achin'." 

"How  long  have  you  been  running  the  grain  ele- 
vator, Charlie?" 


84s  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"  Ever  since  David  Windom  built  it,  back  in  1897, — 
twenty-two  years.  I  took  a  few  months  off  in  '98, 
expecting  to  see  something  of  Cuba,  but  the  darned 
Spaniards  surrendered  when  they  heard  I  was  on  the 
way,  so  I  never  got  any  farther  than  Indianapolis. 
Twenty-two  years.  That's  almost  as  long  as  Alix 
Crown  has  lived  altogether." 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  the  grave  at  the  top  of  Quill's 
Window?" 

"When  I  first  came  here,  yes.  Nobody  ever  goes 
up  there  now.  In  the  first  place,  she  don't  like  it,  and 
in  the  second  place,  most  people  in  these  parts  are  hon- 
ourable. We  wouldn't  any  more  think  of  trespassin' 
up  there  than  we'd  think  of  pickin'  somebody's  pocket. 
Besides  which,  there's  supposed  to  be  rattlesnakes  up 
there  among  the  rocks.  And  besides  that,  the  place  is 
haunted." 

"Haunted?  I  understood  it  was  the  old  Windom 
house  that  is  haunted." 

"  Well,  spooks  travel  about  a  bit,  being  restless  sort 
of  things.  Thirty  or  forty  years  back,  people  swore 
that  old  Quill  and  the  other  people  who  croaked  up 
there  used  to  come  back  during  the  dark  of  the  moon 
and  hold  high  revels,  as  the  novel  writers  would  say. 
Strange  to  say,  they  suddenly  stopped  coming  back 
when  the  sheriff  snook  up  there  one  night  with  a  couple 
of  deputies  and  arrested  a  gang  of  male  and  female 
mortals  and  confiscated  a  couple  of  kegs  of  beer  at  the 
same  time.  Shortly  after  old  David  Windom  confessed 
that  he  killed  Alix's  father  and  buried  him  on  the  rock, 
people  begin  to  talk  about  seeing  things  again.  Funny 
that  Eddie  Crown's  ghost  neglected  to  come  back  till 
after  he'd  been  dead  eighteen  years  or  so.  Ghosts  ain't 


CHARLIE  WEBSTER  ENTERTAINS        85 

usually  so  considerate.  Nobody  ever  claims  to  have 
seen  him  floating  around  the  old  Windom  front  yard 
before  Mr.  Windom  confessed.  But,  by  gosh,  the  story 
hadn't  been  printed  in  the  newspapers  for  more  than 
two  days  before  George  Heffner  saw  Eddie  in  the  front 
yard,  plain  as  day,  and  ran  derned  near  a  mile  and  a 
half  past  his  own  house  before  he  could  stop,  as  he  told 
some  one  that  met  him  when  he  stopped  for  breath. 
Course,  that  story  sort  of  petered  out  when  George's 
wife  went  down  and  cowhided  a  widow  who  lived  just  a 
mile  and  a  half  south  of  their  place,  and  that  night 
George  kept  on  running  so  hard  the  other  way  that  he's 
never  been  heard  of  since.  Since  then  there  hasn't  been 
much  talk  about  ghosts, — 'specially  among  the  married 
men." 

"  And  the  rattlesnakes  ?  "  said  Courtney,  grinning. 

"  Along  about  1875  David  Windom  killed  a  couple 
of  rattlers  up  there.  It's  only  natural  that  their 
ghosts  should  come  back,  same  as  anybody  else's.  Far 
as  I  can  make  out,  nobody  has  ever  actually  seen  one, 
but  the  Lord  only  knows  how  many  people  claim  to 
have  heard  'em." 

He  went  on  in  this  whimsical  fashion  for  half  an  hour 
or  more,  and  finally  came  back  to  Alix  Crown  again. 

"  She  did  an  awful  lot  of  good  during  the  war, — 
contributed  to  everything,  drove  an  ambulance  in  New 
York,  took  up  nursing,  and  all  that,  and  if  the  war 
hadn't  been  ended  by  you  fellers  when  it  was,  she'd  have 
been  over  in  France,  sure  as  you're  a  foot  high." 

**  Strange  she  hasn't  married,  young  and  rich  and 
beautiful  as  she  is,"  mused  Courtney. 

"  Plenty  of  fellers  been  after  her  all  right.  She  don't 
seem  to  be  able  to  see  'em  though.  Now  that  the  war's 


86  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

over  maybe  she'll  settle  down  and  pay  some  attention 
to  sufferin'  humanity.  There's  one  thing  sure.  If 
she's  got  a  beau  he  don't  belong  around  these  parts. 
Nobody  around  here's  got  a  look-in." 

"Does  she  live  all  alone  in  that  house  up  there?  I 
mean,  has  she  no — er — chaperon?" 

"  Nancy  Strong  is  keeping  house  for  her, — her  hus- 
band used  to  run  the  blacksmith  shop  here  and  did  all 
of  David  Windom's  work  for  him.  He's  been  dead  a 
good  many  years.  Nancy  is  one  of  the  finest  women 
you  ever  saw.  Her  father  was  an  Episcopal  minister 
up  in  the  city  up  to  the  time  he  died.  Nancy  had  to 
earn  her  own  living,  so  she  got  a  job  as  school  teacher 
down  here.  Let's  see,  that  was  over  thirty  years  ago. 
Been  here  ever  since.  Tom  Strong  wasn't  good  enough 
for  her.  Too  religious.  He  was  the  feller  that  led 
the  mob  that  wiped  out  Tony  Zimmerman's  saloon  soon 
after  I  came  here.  I'll  never  forget  that  night.  I  hap- 
pened to  be  in  the  saloon, — just  out  of  curiosity,  be- 
cause it  was  new  and  everybody  was  dropping  in  to  see 
the  bar  and  fixtures  he'd  got  from  Chicago, — but  I  got 
out  of  a  back  window  in  plenty  of  time.  But  as  I  was 
saying,  Nancy  Strong  keeps  house  for  Alix.  She's  got 
a  cook  and  a  second  girl  besides,  and  a  chauffeur." 

"  An  ideal  arrangement,"  said  Courtney,  looking  at 
his  wrist-watch. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  ever  came  across  Nancy  Strong's 
son  over  in  France.  He  was  in  the  Medical  Corps  in 
our  Army.  He's  a  doctor.  Went  to  Rush  Medical 
College  in  Chicago  and  afterwards  to  some  place  in 
the  East, — John  Hopkins  or  some  such  name  as  that. 
Feller  about  your  age,  I  should  say.  David  Strong. 
Mr.  Windom  sent  him  through  college.  They  say  he's 


CHARLIE  WEBSTER  ENTERTAINS        87 

paying  the  money  back  to  Alix  Crown  as  fast  as  he 
makes  it.  Alix  hates  him  worse'n  poison,  according  to 
Jim  Bagley,  her  foreman.  Of  course,  she  don't  let  on 
to  David's  mother  on  account  of  her  being  housekeeper 
and  all.  Seems  that  Alix  is  as  sore  as  can  be  because 
he  insists  on  paying  the  money  to  her,  when  she  claims 
her  grandpa  gave  it  to  him  and  it's  none  of  her  business. 
Davy  says  he  promised  to  pay  Mr.  Windom  back  as 
soon  as  he  was  able,  and  can't  see  any  reason  why  the 
old  man's  death  should  cancel  the  obligation.  Jim  was 
telling  me  some  time  ago  abou.t  the  letter  Alix  showed 
him  from  Davy.  She  was  so  mad  she  actually  cried. 
He  said  in  so  many  words  he  didn't  choose  to  be  be- 
holden to  her,  and  that  he  was  in  the  habit  of  paying 
his  debts,  and  she  needn't  be  so  high  and  mighty  about 
refusin'  to  accept  the  money.  He  said  he  didn't  accept 
anything  from  Mr.  Windom  as  charity, — claiming  it 
was  a  loan, — and  he'd  be  damned  if  he'd  accept  charity 
from  her.  I  don't  believe  he  swore  like  that,  but  then 
Jim  can't  say  good  morning  to  you  without  getting  in 
a  cuss  word  or  two.  Alix  is  as  stubborn  as  all  get  out. 
Jim  says  that  every  time  she  gets  a  cheque  from  Davy 
she  cashes  it  and  hands  the  money  over  to  Mrs.  Strong 
for  a  present,  never  letting  on  to  Nancy  that  it  came 
from  Davy.  Did  I  say  that  Davy  is  practisin'  in  Phila- 
delphia? He  was  back  here  for  a  week  to  see  his 
mother  after  he  got  out  of  the  Army,  but  when  Alix 
heard  he  was  coming  she  beat  it  up  to  Chicago.  I 
thought  maybe  you  might  have  run  across  him  over  in 
France." 

"  I  was  not  with  the  American  Army, — and  besides 
there  were  several  million  men  in  France,  Charlie,"  said 
Courtney,  arising  and  stretching  himself.  "  Well,  good 


88  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

night.  Thanks  for  the  uplift.  I'll  skip  along  now  and 
write  a  letter  or  two." 

"  Snappy  dreams,"  said  Charlie  Webster. 

Just  as  Courtney  was  closing  a  long  letter  to  his 
mother,  the  automobile  drew  up  in  front  of  the  Tavern 
and  Alix  Crown's  guests  got  out.  There  were  "  good- 
nights  "  and  "  sleep-tights "  and  then  the  car  went 
purring  down  the  dimly  lighted  road.  He  had  no 
trouble  in  distinguishing  Alix's  clear,  young  voice,  and 
thereupon  added  the  following  words  of  comfort  to  his 
faraway  mother :  "  You  will  love  her  voice,  mater  dear. 
It's  like  music.  So  put  away  your  prejudice  and  wish 
me  luck.  I've  made  a  good  start.  The  fact  that  she 
refused  to  look  at  me  on  the  porch  tonight  is  the  best 
sign  in  the  world.  Just  because  she  deliberately  failed 
to  notice  me  is  no  sign  that  she  didn't  expect  me  to 
notice  her.  It  is  an  ancient  and  time-honoured  trick 
of  your  adorable  sex." 

rn 

The  next  morning  his  walk  took  him  up  the  lane  past 
the  charming,  red-brick  house  of  Alix  the  Third.  His 
leg  was  troubling  him.  He  walked  with  quite  a  pro- 
nounced limp,  and  there  were  times  when  his  face  winced 
with  pain. 

"  It's  that  confounded  poison  you  gave  me  last 
night,"  he  announced  to  Charlie  Webster  as  they  stood 
chatting  in  front  of  the  warehouse  office. 

"  First  time  I  ever  heard  of  booze  going  to  the  knee," 
was  Charlie's  laconic  rejoinder.  "  It's  generally  aimed 
at  the  head." 

He  made  good  use  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  as  he 
strolled  leisurely  past  the  Windom  house,  set  well  back 


CHARLIE  WEBSTER  ENTERTAINS        89 

at  the  top  of  a  small  tree-surrounded  knoll  and  looking 
down  upon  the  grassy  slope  that  formed  the  most  beau- 
tiful "  front  yard  "  in  the  whole  county,  according  to 
the  proud  and  boastful  denizens  of  Windomville.  Along 
the  bottom  of  the  lawn  ran  a  neatly  trimmed  privet 
hedge.  There  were  lilac  bushes  in  the  lower  corners  of 
the  extensive  grounds,  and  the  wide  gravel  walk  up  to 
the  house  was  lined  with  flowers.  Rose  bushes  guarded 
the  base  of  the  terrace  that  ran  the  full  length  of  the 
house  and  curved  off  to  the  back  of  it. 

A  red  and  yellow  beach  umbrella,  tilted  against  the 
hot  morning  sun,  lent  a  gay  note  of  colour  to  the  ter- 
race to  the  left  of  the  steps.  Some  one, — a  woman, — 
sat  beneath  the  big  sunshade,  reading  a  newspaper. 
A  Belgian  police  dog  posed  at  the  top  of  the  steps,  as 
rigid  as  if  shaped  of  stone,  regarding  the  passer-by  who 
limped.  Halfway  between  the  house  and  the  road 
stood  two  fine  old  oaks,  one  at  either  side  of  the  lawn. 
Their  cool,  alluring  shadows  were  like  clouds  upon  an 
emerald  sea.  Down  near  the  hedge  a  whirling  garden 
spray  cast  its  benevolent  waters  over  the  grateful  turf» 
and,  reaching  out  in  playful  gusts,  blew  its  mist  into  the 
face  of  the  man  outside.  Back  of  the  house  and  farther 
up  the  timbered  slope  rose  a  towering  windmill  and 
below  it  the  red  water  tank,  partially  screened  by  the 
tree-tops.  The  rhythmic  beat  of  a  hydraulic  pump 
came  to  the  stroller's  ears. 

Courtney's  saunterings  had  taken  him  past  this 
charming  place  before, — half  a  dozen  times  perhaps, — 
but  never  had  it  seemed  so  alluring.  Outwardly  there 
was  no  change  that  he  could  detect,  and  yet  there  was 
a  subtle  difference  in  its  every  aspect.  The  spray,  the 
shadows,  the  lazy  windmill,  the  flowers, — he  had  seen 


90  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

them  all  before*  just  as  they  were  this  morning.  They 
had  not  changed.  But  now,  by  some  strange  wizardry, 
the  tranquil  setting  had  been  transformed  into  a  vi- 
brant, exquisite  fairyland,  throbbing  with  life,  charged 
with  an  appeal  to  every  one  of  the  senses.  It  was  as  if 
some  hand  had  shaken  it  out  of  a  sound  sleep. 

But,  for  that  matter,  the  whole  village  of  Windom- 
ville  had  undergone  a  change.  It  was  no  longer  the  dull, 
sleepy  place  of  yesterday.  Over  night  it  had  blos- 
somed. Courtney  Thane  alone  was  aware  of  this  amaz- 
ing transformation.  It  was  he  who  felt  the  thrill  that 
charged  the  air,  who  breathed  in  the  sense-quickening 
spice,  who  heard  the  pipes  of  Pan.  All  these  signs  of 
enchantment  were  denied  the  matter-of-fact,  unimagi- 
native inhabitants  of  Windomville.  And  you  would  ask 
the  cause  of  this  amazing  transformation? 

Before  he  left  the  breakfast  table  Courtney  had  con- 
sented to  give  a  talk  before  the  Literary  Society  on  the 
coming  Friday  night.  Mrs.  Maude  Baggs  Pollock  had 
been  at  him  for  a  week  to  tell  of  his  experiences  at  the 
front.  She  promised  a  full  attendance. 

"  I've  never  made  a  speech  in  my  life,"  he  said,  "  and 
I  know  I'd  be  scared  stiff,  Mrs.  Pollock." 

"  Pooh !  Don't  you  talk  to  me  about  being  scared ! 
Anybody  who  did  the  things  you  did  over  in  France —  " 

"  Ah,  but  you  forget  I  was  armed  to  the  teeth,"  he 
reminded  her,  with  a  grin. 

"  Well,"  put  in  Charlie  Webster,  «  we'll  promise  to 
leave  our  pistols  at  home.  The  only  danger  you'll  be 
in,  Court,  will  come  from  a  lot  of  hysterical  women 
trying  to  kiss  you,  but  I  think  I  can  fix  it  to  have  the 
best  lookin'  ones  up  in  front  so  that —  " 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  always  try  to  be  funny,  Charlie 


CHARLIE  WEBSTER  ENTERTAINS        91 

Webster,"  snapped  Mrs.  Pollock.  "  Mr.  Thane  and  I 
were  discussing  a  serious  matter.  If  you  can  post- 
pone— " 

"  I  defy  anybody  to  prove  that  there's  anything 
funny  about  being  kissed  by  practically  half  the  grown- 
up population  of  Windomville  with  the  other  half 
lookin'  on  and  cussin'  under  their  breath." 

"  Don't  pay  any  attention  to  him,  Mr.  Thane,"  said 
the  poetess  of  Windomville.  "  Alix  Crown  said  last 
night  she  was  coming  to  the  meeting  this  week,  and  I'd 
so  like  to  surprise  her.  Now  please  say  you  will  do  it." 

"  I  really  wouldn't  know  what  to  talk  about,"  pleaded 
the  young  man.  "  You  see,  as  a  rule,  we  fellows  who 
were  over  there  don't  feel  half  as  well  qualified  to  talk 
about  the  war  as  those  who  stayed  at  home  and  read 
about  it  in  the  papers." 

"Nonsense!  All  you  will  have  to  do  is  just  to  tell 
some  of  your  own  personal  experiences.  Nobody's 
going  to  think  you  are  bragging  about  them.  We'll 
understand." 

"  Next  Friday  night,  you  say?  Well,  I'll  try,  Mrs. 
Pollock,  if  you'll  promise  to  chloroform  Charlie  Web- 
ster," said  he,  and  Charlie  promptly  declared  he  would 
do  the  chloroforming  himself. 


CHAPTER  VII 

COURTNEY    APPEARS    IN    PUBUC 

THE  meetings  of  the  Literary  Society  were  held 
once  a  month  in  the  Windomville  schoolhouse, 
a  two  story  brick  building  situated  some  dis- 
tance back  from  the  main  street  at  the  upper  edge  of 
the  town.  There  were  four  classrooms  and  three  teach- 
ers, including  the  principal,  Miss  Angie  Miller,  who 
taught  the  upper  grade.  Graduates  from  her  "  room  " 
were  given  diplomas  admitting  them  to  the  first  year 
of  High  School  in  the  city  hard-by  in  case  they  desired 
to  take  advantage  of  the  privilege.  As  a  rule,  how- 
ever, the  parents  of  such  children  were  satisfied  to  call 
it  an  honour  rather  than  a  privilege,  with  the  result 
that  but  few  of  them  ever  saw  the  inside  of  the  High 
School.  They  were  looked  upon  as  being  quite  suffi- 
ciently educated  for  all  that  Windomville  could  pos- 
sibly expect  or  exact  of  them.  When  the  old  school- 
house  was  destroyed  by  fire  in  the  winter  of  1916,  Alix 
Crown  contributed  fifteen  thousand  dollars  toward  the 
construction  of  this  new  and  more  or  less  modern 
structure,  with  the  provision  that  the  town  board  should 
appropriate  the  balance  needed  to  complete  the  build- 
ing. On  completion  the  schoolhouse  was  found  to  have 
cost  exactly  $14,989.75,  and  so,  at  the  next  township 
election,  the  board  was  unanimously  returned  to  office 
by  an  appreciative  constituency,  and  Miss  Crown  gra- 
ciously notified  by  the  assessor  that  she  had  been  cred- 
92 


COURTNEY  APPEARS  IN  PUBLIC         93 

ited  with  ten  dollars  and  twenty-five  cents  against  her 
next  year's  road  tax. 

The  Literary  Society  always  met  in  Miss  Miller's 
"  room,"  not  because  it  was  more  imposing  or  commo- 
dious than  any  of  the  others  but  on  account  of  its 
somewhat  rarified  intellectual  atmosphere.  Miss  Angie's 
literary  attainments,  while  confined  to  absorption 
rather  than  to  production,  were  well  known.  She  was 
supposed  to  have  read  all  of  the  major  poets.  At  any 
rate  she  was  able  to  quote  them.  Besides,  she  had  made 
a  study  of  Dickens  and  Thackeray  and  Trollope,  being 
qualified  to  discuss  the  astonishing  shortcomings  of 
those  amiable  mid- Victorians  in  a  most  dependable  man- 
ner. She  made  extensive  use  of  the  word  "  erudite," 
and  confused  a  great  many  people  by  employing  "vi- 
carious "  and  "  didactic  "  and  "  raison  d'etre  "  in  the 
course  of  ordinary  conversation.  For  example,  in  com- 
plaining to  Mr.  Hodges,  the  school  trustee,  about  the 
lack  of  heat  in  mid-January,  she  completely  subdued  him 
be  remarking  that  there  wasn't  "  the  least  raison  d'etre 
for  such  a  condition."  In  view  of  these  and  other  in- 
tellectual associations,  Miss  Miller's  "room  "  was  ob- 
viously the  place  for  the  Literary  Society  to  meet. 

Mr.  George  Ade,  Mr.  Booth  Tarkington,  Mr.  James 
Whitcomb  Riley,  Mr.  Meredith  Nicholson  and  other 
noted  Indiana  authors  had  been  invited  to  "  read  from 
their  works  "  before  the  Society,  and  while  none  of  them 
had  been  able  to  accept,  each  and  every  one  had  written 
a  polite  note  of  regret  to  the  secretary,  who  not  only 
read  them  aloud  to  the  Society  but  preserved  them  in 
her  own  private  scrap  book  and  spoke  feelingly  of  her 
remarkable  "  collection." 

The  room  was  crowded  to  hear  the  "  celebrated  air- 


94  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

man  "  relate  his  experiences  at  the  front.  The  exer- 
cises were  delayed  for  nearly  an  hour  while  Mr.  Hatch, 
the  photographer,  prepared  and  foozled  three  attempts 
to  get  a  flashlight  picture  of  the  gathering.  Everybody 
was  coughing  violently  when  A.  Lincoln  Pollock  arose 
to  introduce  the  speaker  of  the  evening.  In  conclusion 
he  said: 

"  Mr.  Thane  was  not  only  wounded  in  the  service  of 
humanity  but  he  was  also  gassed.  I  wish  to  state  here 
and  now  that  it  was  not  laughing  gas  the  Germans  ad- 
ministered. Far  from  it,  my  friends.  Mr.  Thane  will 
tell  you  that  it  was  no  laughing  matter.  He  has  come 
to  God's  own  country  to  recuperate  and  to  regain  his 
once  robust  health.  After  looking  the  world  over,  he 
chose  the  health-giving  climate  of  his  native  state, — 
ahem !  I  should  say,  his  father's  native  state, — and 
here  he  is  not  only  thriving  but  enjoying  himself.  I 
take  it  upon  myself  to  announce  that  he  left  all  of  his 
medals  at  his  home  in  New  York.  They  are  too 
precious  to  be  carried  promiscuously  about  the  coun- 
try. It  is  my  pleasure,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  to  intro- 
duce to  you  one  of  the  real  heroes  of  the  Great  War, 
Mr.  Courtney  Thane,  of  New  York  City,  who  will  now 
speak  to  you." 

Alix  Crown  sat  at  the  back  of  the  room.  There  were 
no  chairs,  of  course.  Each  person  present  occupied 
a  scholar's  seat  and  desk.  Courtney  had  seen  her  come 
in.  She  was  so  late  that  he  began  to  fear  she  was  not 
coming  at  all.  The  little  thrill  of  exultation  that  came 
with  her  arrival  was  shortly  succeeded  by  an  even 
greater  fear  that  she  would  depart  as  soon  as  the  meet- 
ing was  over,  without  stopping  to  meet  him  at  the  "  re- 
ception "  which  was  to  follow. 


COURTNEY  APPEARS  IN  PUBLIC         95 

In  his  most  agreeable  drawl  and  with  the  barest  ref- 
erence to  his  own  exploits,  he  described,  quite  simply,  a 
number  of  incidents  that  had  come  under  his  personal 
observation  while  with  the  American  Ambulance  and 
afterwards  in  the  British  Flying  Corps.  Most  of  his 
talk  was  devoted  to  the  feats  of  others  and  to  the  de- 
scription of  scenes  and  events  somewhat  remote  from 
the  actual  fighting  zone.  He  confessed  that  he  knew 
practically  nothing  of  the  work  of  the  American  Expe- 
ditionary Force,  except  by  hearsay,  as  he  did  not  come 
in  contact  with  the  American  armies,  except  an  occa- 
sional unit  brigaded  with  British  troops  in  the  Cambrai 
section  of  the  great  line.  His  listeners,  no  doubt,  knew 
a  great  deal  more  about  the  activities  and  achievements 
of  the  Americans  than  he,  so  he  was  quite  sure  there 
was  nothing  he  could  say  that  would  interest  or  en- 
lighten them.  In  concluding  he  very  briefly  touched 
upon  his  own  mishap. 

"  We  were  returning  from  a  bombing  flight  over  the 
German  positions  when  somebody  put  a  bullet  into  our 
petrol  and  down  we  came  in  flames.  There  was  a  gas 
attack  going  on  at  the  time.  We  managed  to  land  in 
a  cloud  of  it,  and — somehow  we  got  back  to  our  own 
lines,  a  little  the  worse  for  wear  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing,  you  know.  It  wasn't  as  bad  as  you'd  think, — 
except  for  the  gas,  which  isn't  what  you  would  call 
palatable, — and  I  came  out  not  much  worse  off  than 
a  chap  who  has  been  through  a  hard  football  scrim- 
mage. Knee  and  ankle  bunged  up  a  little, — and  a  dusty 
uniform, — that's  about  all.  I  hope  you  will  excuse 
me  from  talking  any  longer.  My  silly  throat  goes 
back  on  me,  you  see.  My  mother  probably  would  tell 
you,  '  too  many  cigarettes.'  Perhaps  she  is  right. 


96  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

Thank  you  for  listening  to  all  this  rot,  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen. You  are  very  kind  to  have  given  me  this  un- 
deserved honour." 

Not  once  during  his  remarks  did  he  allow  his  gaze 
to  rest  upon  Alix  Crown.  It  was  his  means  of  inform- 
ing her  that  she  had  not  made  the  slightest  impression 
upon  him. 

As  he  resumed  his  seat  beside  Mr.  Pollock,  and  while 
the  generous  hand-clapping  was  still  going  on,  Pastor 
Mavity  arose  and  benignly  waited  for  the  applause  to 
cease.  Mr.  Mavity  invariably  claimed  the  ecclesiastical 
privilege  of  speech.  No  meeting  was  complete,  no  topic 
exhausted,  until  he  had  exercised  that  right.  It  did 
not  matter  whether  he  had  anything  pertinent  to  say, 
the  fact  still  remained  that  he  felt  called  upon  to  say 
something: 

"  I  should  like  to  ask  Mr.  Thane  if  he  thinks  the  Ger- 
mans are  preparing  for  another  war.  We  have  heard 
rumours  to  that  effect.  Many  of  our  keenest  observers 
have  declared  that  it  is  only  a  matter  of  a  few  years 
before  the  Germans  will  be  in  a  position  to  make  war 
again,  and  that  they  will  make  it  with  even  greater 
ferocity  than  before.  We  all  know  of  the  conflict  now 
raging  in  Russia,  and  the  amazing  rebellion  of  De 
Annunzio  in  Fiume,  and  the — er — as  I  was  saying,  the 
possibility  of  the  Kaiser  seizing  his  bloody  throne  and 
calling  upon  his  minions  to — ah — er — renew  the  gigan- 
tic struggle.  The  history  of  the  world  records  no  such 
stupendous  sacrifice  of  life  on  the  cruel  altars  of  greed 
and  avarice  and — er — ambition.  We  may  turn  back 
to  the  vast  campaigns  of  Hannibal  and  Hamilcar  and 
Julius  Caesar  and  find  no — er — no  war  comparable  to 
the  one  we  have  so  gloriously  concluded.  Our  own 


COURTNEY  APPEARS  IN  PUBLIC         97 

Civil  War,  with  all  its, — but  I  must  not  keep  you  stand- 
ing, Mr.  Thane.  Do  you,  from  your  experience  and 
observation,  regard  another  war  as  inevitable?  " 

"  I  do,"  was  Courtney's  succinct  reply. 

There  was  a  distinctly  audible  flutter  throughout  the 
room.  Here,  at  last,  was  something  definite  to  sup- 
port the  general  contention  that  "  we  aren't  through 
with  the  Germans  yet."  A  lady  up  in  front  leaned 
across  the  aisle  and  whispered  piercingly  to  her  hus- 
band: 

"  There!     What  did  I  tell  you?  " 

Another  lady  arose  halfway  from  her  seat  and  anx- 
iously inquired: 

"  How  soon  do  you  think  it  will  come,  Mr.  Thane?  " 

She  had  a  son  just  turning  seventeen. 

"  That  is  a  question  I  am  afraid  you  will  have  to 
put  to  God  or  the  German  Emperor,"  said  Courtney, 
with  a  smile. 

"  When  David  Strong  was  home  this  spring  I  asked 
him  what  he  thought  about  it,"  said  Editor  Pollock. 
"  I  published  the  interview  in  the  Sun.  He  was  of 
the  opinion  that  the  Germans  had  had  all  they  wanted 
of  war.  I  tried  to  convince  him  that  he  was  all  wrong, 
but  all  I  could  get  him  to  say  was  that  if  they  ever 
did  make  war  again  it  would  be  long  after  the  most  of 
us  were  dead." 

"  David  Strong  didn't  see  anything  of  the  war  ex- 
cept what  he  saw  in  the  hospitals,"  said  a  woman  con- 
temptuously. 

"  Permit  me  to  correct  you,  Mrs.  Primmer,"  said 
Alix  Crown,  without  arising.  "  David  Strong  was  un- 
der fire  most  of  the  time.  He  was  not  in  a  base  hos- 
pital. He  was  attached  to  a  field  hospital, — first  with 


98  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

the  French,  then  with  the  British,  and  afterwards  with 
the  Americans." 

'*  In  that  case,"  said  Courtney,  facing  her,  "  he  was 
in  the  thick  of  it.  Every  man  in  the  army,  from  general 
down  to  the  humblest  private,  takes  his  hat  off  to  the 
men  who  served  in  the  field  hospitals.  While  we  may 
differ  as  to  the  next  war,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that 
Dr.  Strong  saw  infinitely  more  of  the  last  one  than  I 
did.  It  may  sound  incredible  to  you,  ladies  and  gentle- 
men, but  my  job  was  a  picnic  compared  to  his.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  I  have  always  claimed  that  I  was  in 
greater  danger  when  I  was  in  the  American  Ambulance 
than  when  I  was  flying,  quite  safely,  a  couple  of  miles 
up  in  the  air.  At  any  rate,  I  felt  safer." 

"  Oh,  but  think  of  falling-  that  distance,"  cried  Miss 
'Angie  Miller. 

'*  It  was  against  the  rules  to  think  of  falling,"  said 
he,  and  every  one  laughed. 

The  "  reception  "  followed.  Every  one  came  up  and 
shook  hands  with  Courtney  and  told  him  how  much  his 
address  was  enjoyed.  As  the  group  around  him  grew 
thicker  and  at  the  same  time  more  reluctant  to  move 
on,  he  began  to  despair  of  meeting  Alix  Crown.  He 
could  see  her  over  near  the  door  conversing  with  Alaska 
Spigg  and  Charlie  Webster.  Then  he  saw  her  wave 
her  hand  in  farewell  to  some  one  across  the  room  and 
bow  to  Charlie.  There  was  a  bright,  gay  smile  on  her 
lips  as  she  said  something  to  Charlie  which  caused  that 
gentleman  to  laugh  prodigiously.  All  hope  seemed  lost 
as  she  and  little  old  Alaska  turned  toward  the  open 
door. 

It  was  not  fate  that  intervened.     It  was   Pastor 


COURTNEY  APPEARS  IN  PUBLIC         99 

Mavity.  Disengaging  himself  from  the  group  and  leav- 
ing a  profound  sentence  uncompleted,  he  dashed  over  to 
her,  calling  out  her  name  as  he  did  so. 

"  Alix !    Just  a  moment,  please !  " 

She  paused, — and  Courtney  discreetly  turned  his 
back.  Presently  a  benevolent  hand  was  laid  on  his 
shoulder  and  the  voice  of  the  shepherd  fell  upon  his 
ear. 

"  I  want  you  to  meet  Miss  Crown,  Mr.  Thane.  She 
has  just  been  telling  me  how  interested  she  was  in  your 
remarks.  Miss  Crown,  my  very  dear  friend,  Mr.  Court- 
ney Thane.  Mr.  Thane,  as  you  may  already  know,  is 
sojourning  in  our  midst  for — " 

"  I  am  delighted  to  meet  you,  Miss  Crown,"  broke  in 
Courtney,  with  an  abashed  smile.  "  Formally,  I  mean. 
I  have  a  very  distinct  recollection  of  meeting  you  in- 
formally," he  added  wrily. 

"  Dear  me !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Mavity,  elevating  his 
eyebrows. 

Courtney's  humility  disarmed  her.  She  allowed  her 
lips  to  curve  slightly  in  a  faint  smile.  The  merest 
trace  of  a  dimple  flickered  for  an  instant  in  her  smooth 
cheek. 

"  I  suppose  it  was  the  old  story  of  forbidden  fruit, 
Mr.  Thane,"  said  she.  Then,  impulsively,  she  extended 
her  hand.  He  clasped  it  firmly,  and  there  was  peace 
between  them. 

"On  the  contrary,  Miss  Crown,  it  was  an  unpardon- 
able piece  of  impudence,  for  which  I  am  so  heartily 
ashamed  that  I  wonder  how  I  can  look  you  in  the  face." 

"  I  was  tremendously  interested  in  your  talk  to- 
night," she  said,  coolly  dismissing  the  subject.  *'  Thank 


100  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

you  for  giving  us  the  pleasure.  It  is  just  such  adven- 
tures as  you  have  had  that  makes  me  wish  more  than 
ever  that  I  had  not  been  born  a  girl." 

He  bowed  gallantly.  "What  would  the  world  be 
like  if  God  had  neglected  to  create  the  rose?  " 

"  Bravo ! "  cried  Mr.  Mavity,  slapping  him  on  the 
back.  "  Spoken  like  a  knight  of  old." 

"  Good  night,  Mr.  Thane, — and  thank  you  again," 
she  said.  Nodding  to  Mr.  Mavity,  she  turned  to  leave 
the  group. 

Again  the  parson  intervened.  "  My  dear  Alix,  I  can't 
let  you  go  without  saying  a  word  about  your  splendid 
defence  of  David  Strong.  It  was  fine.  And  you,  sir, 
were — ah — what  shall  I  say? — you  were  most  generous 
in  saying  what  you  did.  David  is  a  fine  fellow.  He — " 

"  I  should  have  said  the  same  about  any  doctor  who 
was  up  at  the  front,"  said  Courtney  simply.  "  Is  he 
an  old  friend,  Miss  Crown?" 

"  I  have  known  him  ever  since  I  can  remember,"  she 
replied,  and  he  detected  a  slight  stiffness  in  her  manner. 

"Ahem!  Er — ah — "  began  Mr.  Mavity  tactfully. 
"  David  was  born  here,  -Mr.  Thane.  Well,  good  night, 
Alix, — good  night." 

When  she  was  quite  out  of  hearing,  the  flustered 
parson  lowered  his  voice  and  said  to  Courtney: 

"  They — er — don't  get  along  very  well,  you  see.  I 
couldn't  explain  while  she  was  here.  Something  to  do 
with  money  matters, — nothing  of  consequence,  I  assure 
you, — but  very  distressing,  most  distressing.  It  is  too 
bad,— too  bad." 

Mrs.  Pollock  overheard.  "  They're  both  terribly 
set  in  their  ways,"  she  remarked.  "  Stubborn  as  mules. 
For  my  part,  I  think  Alix  is  too  silly  for  words  about 


COURTNEY  APPEARS  IN  PUBLIC       101 

it.  Especially  with  his  mother  living  in  the  same  house 
with  her.  Now,  mind  you,  I'm  not  saying  anything 
against  Alix.  I  love  her.  But  just  the  same,  she  can 
be  the  most  unreasonable — " 

"  They  haven't  spoken  to  each  other  for  over  three 
years,"  inserted  Angie  Miller.  "When  they  were  chil- 
dren they  were  almost  inseparable.  David  Windom 
took  a  fancy  to  little  David.  The  story  is  that 
he  was  trying  to  ease  his  conscience  by  being  nice  to 
a  blacksmith's  son.  You  see,  his  own  daughter  ran 
away  with  a  blacksmith's  son, — and  you've  heard  what 
happened,  Mr.  Thane.  David  was  in  my  class  for  two 
years  before  he  went  up  to  High  School,  and  I  remem- 
ber he  always  used  to  get  long  letters  from  Alix  when 
she  was  in  England.  Then,  when  she  came  home, — 
she  was  about  twelve  I  think, — they  were  great  friends. 
Always  together,  playing,  studying,  reading,  riding 
and—" 

"  Everybody  used  to  say  old  David  Windom  was 
doing  his  best  to  make  a  match  of  it,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Pollock,  who  had  been  out  of  the  conversation  longer 
than  she  liked.  "  Up  to  the  time  the  old  man  died, 
we  used  to  take  it  for  granted  that  some  day  they 
would  get  married, — but,  my  goodness,  it's  like  waving 
a  red  flag  at  a  bull  to  even  mention  his  name  to  Alix 
now.  She  hates  him, — and  I  guess  he  hates  her." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  friend,"  cried  Mr.  Mavity,  "  I  really 
don't  think  you  ought  to  say  that.  Hate  is  a  very 
dreadful  word.  I  am  sure  Alix  is  incapable  of  actually 
hating  any  one.  And  as  for  David,  he  is  kindness,  gen- 
tleness itself.  It  is  just  one  of  those  unfortunate  situa- 
tions that  cannot  be  accounted  for." 

Charlie  Webster  came  up  at  that  juncture. 


102  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"  Say,  Court,  why  didn't  you  tell  'em  about  the  time 
jou  called  Colonel  What's-His-Name  down, — the 
French  guy  that — "  The  scowl  on  Courtney's  brow 
silenced  the  genial  Charlie.  He  coughed  and  sputtered 
for  a  moment  or  two  and  then  said  something  about 
"  taking  a  joke." 

As  Charlie  moved  away,  Miss  Angie  Miller  sniffed 
and  said,  without  appreciably  lowering  her  voice : 

"  I  wonder  where  he  gets  it.  There  isn't  supposed 
to  be  a  drop  in  Windomville."  Suddenly  her  eyes  flew 
wide  open.  "  Furman !  Oh,  Furman  Hatch !  "  she 
called  out  to  a  man  who  was  sidling  toward  the  door 
in  the  wake  of  the  pernicious  Mr.  Webster. 

While  there  was  nothing  to  indicate  that  Mr.  Hatch 
heard  her,  the  most  disinterested  spectator  would  have 
observed  a  perceptible  acceleration  of  speed  on  his  part. 

"  You  promised  to  tell  me  how  to — "  But  Mr.  Hatch 
was  gone.  Mr.  Webster  turned  a  surprised  and  resent- 
ful look  upon  him  as  he  felt  himself  being  pushed  rather 
roughly  through  the  door  ahead  of  the  hurrying  pho- 
tographer. When  Miss  Angie  reached  the  door, — she 
had  lost  some  little  time  because  of  the  seats  and  the 
stupidity  of  Mrs.  Primmer  who  blocked  the  way  by 
first  turning  to  the  rlfoht,  then  to  the  left,  and  finally 
by  not  turning  at  all, — Mr.  Hatch  was  nowhere  in  sight, 
even  though  Mr.  Webster  was  barely  two-thirds  of  the 
way  down  the  stairs. 

A  pleasant,  courteous  voice  accosted  her  from  be- 
hind as  she  stood  glaring  after  the  chubby  warehouse- 
man. 

"  Do  you  mind  if  I  walk  home  with  you,  Miss 
Miller?  " 

"Oh,    is— is    that    you,    Mr.    Thane?"    she    fairly 


COURTNEY  APPEARS  IN  PUBLIC       103 

gasped.  Then  she  simpered.  "  I'm  really  not  a  bit 
afraid.  Still," — hastily — "  if  you  really  wish  to,  I 
should  be  delighted." 

If  Mr.  Hatch  was  lurking  anywhere  in  the  shadows, 
he  must  have  been  profoundly  impressed  by  the  trans- 
formation in  Miss  Angie  Miller  as  she  strode  home- 
ward at  the  side  of  the  tall  young  New  Yorker,  her 
hand  on  his  arm,  her  head  held  high, — he  might  also 
have  noticed  that  she  stepped  a  little  higher  than  usual. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ALIX   THE   THIRD 

OCTOBER  came,  with  its  red  and  golden  trees, 
its  brown  pastures,  its  crisp  nights  and  its 
hazy,  smoky  days.  Fires  were  kindled  in 
old-fashioned  fireplaces;  out  in  the  farmyards  busy 
housewives  were  making  soap  and  apple  butter  in  great 
iron  kettles  suspended  over  blazing  logs ;  wagons  laden 
with  wheat  and  corn  rumbled  through  country  roads 
and  up  to  the  Windom  elevator;  stores  were  thriving 
under  the  spur  of  new-found  money;  the  school  was 
open,  Main  Street  childless  for  hours  at  a  time, — and 
Courtney  Thane  was  still  in  Windomville. 

He  was  a  frequent,  almost  constant  visitor  at  the 
red-brick  house  on  the  knoll.  The  gossips  were  busy. 
Sage  winks  were  exchanged  when  Alix  and  he  were 
seen  together  in  her  automobile ;  many  a  head  was  low- 
ered so  that  its  owner  might  peer  quizzically  over  the 
upper  rims  of  spectacles  as  they  strolled  past  the  post- 
office  and  other  public  porches;  convicting  feminine 
smiles  pursued  the  young  man  up  the  lane  leading  to 
Alix's  home.  There  were  some  doubtful  head-shakings, 
but  in  the  main  Windomville  was  rather  well  pleased 
with  the  prospect.  Opinion,  though  divided,  was  almost 
unanimous :  few  there  were  who  held  that  "  nothin' 
would  come  of  it. - 

Charlie  Webster  was  one  of  the  latter.  His  early 
intimacy  with  the  ex-aviator  had  suffered  a  decided 
104 


ALIX  THE  THIRD  105 

slump.  His  jovial  attempts  to  plague  the  young  man 
about  his  intentions  met  with  the  frostiest  reception. 
Indeed,  on  one  memorable  occasion,  the  object  of  these 
good-natured  banterings  turned  upon  him,  coldly  and 
said: 

"  See  here,  Webster,  you're  getting  to  be  consid- 
erable of  a  nuisance.  Cut  it  out,  will  you?  You  are 
not  half  as  funny  as  you  think  you  are.  I'm  pretty 
well  fed  up  with  your  freshness — understand?  " 

It  was  a  slap  in  the  face  that  Charlie  did  under- 
stand, and  one  he  never  forgot.  As  the  rebuke  was 
uttered  on  the  porch  of  Dowd's  Tavern  and  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Flora  Grady,  Maude  Baggs  Pollock  and  one 
or  two  others,  the  sting  was  likely  to  endure. 

While  Courtney's  manner  had  undergone  a  decided 
change  so  far  as  nearly  all  of  his  fellow-lodgers  were 
concerned,  he  still  maintained  a  very  friendly  and  cour- 
teous attitude  toward  the  Dowd  sisters  and  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Pollock.  For  some  reason  known  only  to  him- 
self,— (but  doubtless  plain  to  the  reader  of  this  narra- 
tive),— he  devoted  most  of  his  attention  to  the  editor 
and  his  wife  and  to  the  two  spinsters  who  were  such 
close  friends  of  the  young  lady  of  his  dreams.  As  for 
the  others,  he  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  his  disdain. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  Irish  in  Miss  Flora  Grady 
was  aroused.  She  announced  to  Miss  Angie  Miller 
that  he  was  a  "  stuck  up  smart- Aleck,"  and  sooner  or 
later  he'd  get  a  piece  of  her  mind  that  would  "  take 
him  down  a  couple  of  pegs."  Miss  Miller,  while  in 
complete  accord  with  Flora's  views,  was  content  to 
speak  of  him  as  "  supercilious." 

Charlie  Webster  grew  more  and  more  thoughtful  un- 
der the  weight  of  indignity. 


106  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"  I  certainly  missed  my  guess  as  to  that  feller,"  he 
remarked  to  Doc  Simpson  and  Hatch  one  day.  "  I  had 
him  sized  up  as  a  different  sort  of  feller  altogether. 
Why,  up  to  a  couple  of  weeks  ago,  he  was  as  nice  as 
pie  to  all  of  us, — 'specially  to  me.  He  used  to  come 
over  to  my  office  and  sit  around  for  hours,  chatting  and 
smoking  cigarettes  and  joshing  like  a  good  feller.  But 
I've  got  it  all  figgered  out,  boys.  He  was  simply 
workin'  me.  He  always  led  the  conversation  round  to 
Alix  Crown,  and  then,  like  a  dern'  fool,  I'd  let  him 
pump  me  dry.  Why,  there's  nothing  he  don't  know 
about  that  girl, — and  all  through  me.  Now  he's  got 
in  with  her, — just  as  he  wanted  to  all  along, — and  what 
does  he  do  but  tie  a  can  to  me  and  give  me  a  swift  kick. 
And  there's  another  thing  I  might  as  well  say  to  you 
fellers  while  I'm  about  it.  I've  been  doing  a  lot  of 
thinking  lately, — sort  of  putting  things  together  in 
my  mind, — and  it's  my  opinion  that  he  is  one  of  the 
blamedest  liars  I've  ever  come  across." 

He  paused  to  see  the  effect  of  this  startling  asser- 
tion. Hatch  removed  the  corn-cob  pipe  from  between 
his  lips  and  laconically  observed: 

"  Well,  I  know  of  one  lie  he's  told." 

"You  do?" 

"  Remember  him  telling  us  at  the  supper  table  one 
night  that  a  German  submarine  fired  three  torpedoes 
at  the  steamer  he  was  coming  home  on  with  a  lot  of 
other  sick  and  wounded?  Well,  a  couple  of  nights  ago 
he  forgot  himself  and  made  the  statement  that  he  was 
in  a  hospital  in  England  for  nearly  two  months  after 
the  armistice  was  signed." 

"  By  gosh,  that's  right,"  cried  Doc  Simpson. 

"And  what's   more,"  went  on  Hatch,   "wasn't  he 


ALIX  THE  THIRD  107 

serving  in  the  British  Array?  What  I'd  like  to  know  is 
this:  why  would  England  be  sending  her  wounded  sol- 
diers over  to  America?  You  can  bet  your  life  Eng- 
land wasn't  doing  anything  like  that." 

"  There's  another  thing  that  don't  sound  just  right 
to  me,"  said  Charlie,  his  brow  furrowed.  "  He  says 
one  night  he  got  lost  driving  his  ambulance  and  the 
first  thing  he  knew  he  was  away  behind  the  German 
lines.  I  may  be  wrong,  but  I've  always  thought  both 
sides  had  trenches.  What  puzzles  me  is  how  the  dickens 
he  managed  to  drive  that  Ford  of  his  over  the  German 
trenches  without  noticin'  'em, — and  back  again 
besides." 

"  Well,"  said  Doc,  desiring  to  be  fair,  "  it  seems  to  be 
the  habit  of  soldiers  to  lie  a  little.  That's  where  we 
get  the  saying,  '  he  lied  like  a  trooper.'  I  know  my 
Uncle  George  lied  so  much  about  what  he  did  in  the 
Civil  War  that  he  ought  to  have  had  twenty  pensions 
instead  of  one.  Still,  there's  a  big  change  in  Court,  as 
you  say,  Charlie.  I  wonder  if  Alix  is  really  keen  about 
him.  He's  up  there  all  the  time,  seems  to  me.  Or  is  she 
just  stringin*  him?  " 

Charlie  frowned  darkly.  "  He's  a  slick  one.  I — I'd 
hate  to  see  Alix  fall  for  him." 

The  sententious  Mr.  Hatch :  "  The  smartest  women 
in  the  world  lose  their  heads  over  a  feller  as  soon  as 
they  find  out  he's  in  poor  health." 

"  He's  in  perfect  health,"  exploded  Charlie. 

"  I  know, — but  that  don't  prevent  him  from  cough- 
ing and  holding  his  side  and  walking  with  a  cane,  does 
it?  That's  what  gets  'em,  Charlie.  The  quickest  way 
to  get  a  girl  interested  is  to  let  her  think  you're  in  need 
of  sympathy." 


108  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"  It  don't  work  when  you're  as  fat  as  I  am,"  said 
Charlie  gloomily. 

Conscious  or  unconscious  of  the  varying  opinions 
that  were  being  voiced  behind  his  back,  Courtney  went 
confidently  ahead  with  his  wooing.  He  congratulated 
himself  that  he  was  in  Alix's  good  graces.  If  at  times 
she  was  perplexingly  cool, — or  "  upstage,"  as  he  called 
it, — he  flattered  himself  that  he  knew  women  too  well  to 
be  discouraged  by  these  purely  feminine  manifestations. 

This  was  a  game  he  knew  how  to  play.  The  time 
was  not  yet  ripe  for  him  to  abandon  his  well-calculated 
air  of  indifference.  That  he  was  desperately  in  love 
with  her  goes  without  saying.  If  at  the  outset  of  his 
campaign  he  was  inspired  by  the  unworthy  motive  of 
greed,  he  was  now  consumed  by  an  entirely  different 
desire, — the  desire  to  have  her  for  his  own,  even  though 
she  were  penniless. 

Those  whirlwind  tactics  that  had  swept  many  an- 
other girl  off  her  feet  were  not  to  be  thought  of  here, 
Alix  was  different.  She  was  not  an  impressionable, 
hair-brained  flapper,  such  as  he  had  come  in  contact 
with  in  past  experiences.  Despite  her  sprightly,  thor- 
oughly up-to-the-moment  ease  of  manner,  and  an  air 
of  complete  sophistication,  she  was  singularly  old-fash- 
ioned in  a  great  many  respects.  While  she  was  bright, 
amusing,  gay,  there  was  back  of  it  all  a  certain  reserve 
that  forbade  familiarity, — sufficient,  indeed,  to  inspire 
unexampled  caution  on  his  part.  She  invited  friend- 
ship but  not  familiarity;  she  demanded  respect  rather 
than  admiration. 

He  was  not  slow  in  arriving  at  the  conclusion  that 
she  knew  men.  She  knew  how  to  fence  with  them.  He 
was  distinctly  aware  of  this.  Other  men,  of  course, 


ALIX  THE  THIRD  109 

had  been  in  love  with  her;  other  men  no  doubt  had 
dashed  their  hopes  upon  the  barrier  in  their  haste  to 
seize  the  treasure.  It  was  inconceivable  that  one  so 
lovely,  so  desirable,  so  utterly  feminine  should  fail  to 
inspire  in  all  men  that  which  she  inspired  in  him.  The 
obvious,  therefore,  was  gratifying.  Granted  that  she 
had  had  proposals,  here  was  the  proof  that  the  poor 
fools  who  laid  their  hearts  at  her  feet  had  gone  about 
it  clumsily.  Such  would  not  be  the  case  with  him. 
Oh  no !  He  would  bide  his  time,  he  would  watch  for  the 
first  break  in  her  enchanted  armour, — and  then  the  con- 
quest ! 

There  were  times,  of  course,  when  he  came  near 
to  catastrophe, — times  when  he  was  almost  powerless 
to  resist  the  passion  that  possessed  him.  These  were 
the  times  when  he  realized  how  easy  it  would  have  been 
to  join  that  sad  company  of  fools  in  the  path  behind 
her. 

He  had  no  real  misgivings.  He  felt  confident  of 
winning.  True,  her  moods  puzzled  him  at  times,  but 
were  they  not,  after  all,  omens  of  good  fortune?  Were 
they  not  indications  of  the  mysterious  changes  that 
were  taking  place  in  her?  And  the  way  was  clear.  So 
far  as  he  knew,  there  was  no  other  man.  Her  heart 
was  free.  What  more  could  he  ask? 

On  her  side,  the  situation  was  not  so  complex.  He 
came  from  the  great  outside  world,  he  brought  the  out- 
side world  to  the  lonely  little  village  on  the  bank  of  the 
river.  He  was  bright,  amusing,  cultivated, — at  least 
he  represented  cultivation  as  it  exists  in  open  places 
and  on  the  surface  of  a  sea  called  civilization.  He  pos- 
sessed that  ineffable  quality  known  as  "  manner."  The 
spice  of  the  Metropolis  clung  to  him.  He  could  talk 


110  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

of  the  things  she  loved, — not  as  she  loved  the  farm  and 
village  and  the  home  of  her  fathers,  but  of  the  things 
she  loved  because  they  stood  for  that  which  represented 
the  beautiful  in  intellect,  in  genius,  in  accomplishment. 
The  breath  of  far  lands  and  wide  seas  came  with  him 
to  the  town  of  Windomville,  grateful  and  soothing,  and 
yet  laden  with  the  tang  of  turmoil,  the  spice  of  iniquity. 

Alix  was  no  Puritan.  She  had  been  out  in  the  world, 
she  had  come  up  against  the  elemental  in  life,  she  had 
learned  that  God  in  His  wisdom  had  peopled  the  earth 
with  saints  and  sinners, — and  she  was  tolerant  of  both ! 
In  a  word,  she  was  broad-minded.  She  had  been  an 
observer  rather  than  a  participant  in  the  passing  show. 
She  had  absorbed  knowledge  rather  than  experience. 

The  conventions  remained  unshaken  so  far  as  she 
was  personally  concerned.  In  others  she  excused  much 
that  she  could  not  have  excused  in  herself, — for  the 
heritage  of  righteousness  had  come  down  to  her  through 
a  long  line  of  staunch  upholders. 

She  loved  life.  She  craved  companionship.  She 
could  afford  to  gratify  her  desires.  Week-ends  found 
two  or  more  guests  at  her  home, — friends  from  the  city 
up  the  river.  Sometimes  there  were  visitors  from  Chi- 
cago, Indianapolis  and  other  places, — girls  she  had  met 
at  school,  or  in  her  travels,  or  in  the  canteen.  Early 
in  the  war  her  house  was  headquarters  for  the  local  Red 
Cross  workers,  the  knitters,  the  bandage  rollers,  and 
so  on,  but  after  the  entry  of  the  United  States  into  the 
conflict,  most  of  her  time  was  spent  away  from  Win- 
domville in  the  more  intense  activities  delegated  to 
women. 

She  attended  the  theatre  when  anything  worth  while 
came  to  the  city,  frequently  taking  one  or  two  of  the 


ALIX  THE  THIRD  111 

village  people  with  her.  Once,  as  she  was  leaving  the 
theatre,  she  heard  herself  discussed  by  persons  in  the 
aisle  behind. 

"  That's  Alix  Crown.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  her  when 
we  get  home.  Her  father  and  mother  were  murdered 
years  ago  and  buried  in  a  well  or  something.  I  wish 
she'd  turn  around  so  that  you  could  get  a  good  look 
at  her  face.  She's  quite  pretty  and — " 

And  she  had  deliberately  turned  to  face  the  speaker, 
who  never  forgot  the  cold,  unwavering  stare  that  caused 
her  to  lower  her  own  eyes  and  her  voice  to  trail  off 
into  a  confused  mumble. 

Alix  was  a  long  time  in  recovering  from  the  distress 
caused  by  the  incident.  She  avoided  the  city  for  weeks. 
It  was  her  first  intimation  that  she  was  an  object  of 
unusual  interest  to  people,  that  she  was  the  subject  of 
whispered  comment,  that  she  was  a  "  character  "  to  be 
pointed  out  to  strangers.  Even  now,  with  the  sting 
of  injury  and  injustice  eased  by  time  and  her  own 
good  sense,  there  still  remained  the  disturbing  con- 
sciousness that  she  was, — for  want  of  a  milder  term, — 
a  "  marked  woman." 

She  was  thoroughly  acquainted  with  every  detail 
connected  with  the  extensive  farms  and  industries  that 
had  been  handed  down  to  her.  A  great  deal  of  her 
time  was  devoted  to  an  intelligent  and  comprehensive 
interest  in  the  management  of  the  farms.  She  was 
never  out  of  touch  with  conditions.  Her  tenants  re- 
spected and  admired  her;  her  foremen  and  superintend- 
ents consulted  with  her  as  they  would  not  have  believed 
it  possible  to  consult  with  a  woman;  her  bankers  de- 
ferred to  her. 

She  would  have  laughed  at  you  if  you  had  suggested 


112  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

to  her  that  she  had  more  than  a  grain  of  business- 
sense,  or  ability,  or  capacity,  and  yet  she  was  singularly 
far-sighted  and  capable, — without  being  in  the  least 
aware  of  it.  Her  pleasures  were  not  allowed  to  inter- 
fere with  her  obligations  as  a  landlord,  a  citizen  and  a 
taxpayer.  A  certain  part  of  each  day  was  set  aside 
for  the  business  of  the  farms.  She  repaired  bright  and 
early  to  the  little  office  at  the  back  of  the  house  where 
her  grandfather  had  worked  before  her,  and  there  she 
struggled  over  accounts,  reports,  claims, — and  her 
cheque-book.  And  like  her  grim,  silent  grandsire,  she 
"  rode  "  the  lanes  that  twined  through  field  and  tim- 
ber,— only  she  rode  gaily,  blithely,  with  sunshine  in 
her  heart.  The  darkness  was  always  behind  her,  never 
ahead. 

Courtney  undoubtedly  had  overcome  the  prejudice 
his  visit  to  Quill's  Window  had  inspired  in  her.  They 
never  spoke  of  that  first  encounter.  It  was  as  a  closed 
book  between  them.  He  had  forgotten  the  incident. 
At  any  rate,  he  had  put  it  out  of  his  mind.  He  some- 
times wondered,  however,  if  she  would  ever  invite  him 
to  accompany  her  to  the  top  of  that  forbidden  hill. 
In  their  rambles  they  had  passed  the  closed  gate  on 
more  than  one  occasion.  The  words,  "  No  Trespass," 
still  met  the  eye.  Some  day  he  would  suggest  an  adven- 
ture :  the  descent  to  the  cave  in  quest  of  treasure !  The 
two  of  them !  Rope  ladder  and  all !  It  would  be  great 
fun! 

He  was  assiduous  in  his  efforts  to  amuse  her  house 
guests.  He  laid  himself  out  to  be  entertaining.  If  he 
resented  the  presence  of  young  men  from  the  city,  he 
managed  to  conceal  his  feelings  remarkably  well.  On 
one  point  he  was  firm :  he  would  not  accompany  her  on 


ALIX  THE  THIRD  113 

any  of  her  trips  to  the  city.  Once  she  had  invited  him 
to  motor  in  with  her  to  a  tea,  and  another  time  she 
offered  to  drive  him  about  the  city  and  out  to  the  col- 
lege on  a  sight-seeing  tour.  It  was  then  that  he  said 
he  was  determined  to  obey  "  doctor's  orders."  No  city 
streets  for  him!  Even  she  couldn't  entice  him!  He 
loved  every  inch  of  this  charming,  restful  spot, — every 
tree  and  every  stone, — and  he  would  not  leave  it  until 
the  time  came  for  him  to  go  away  forever. 

He  was  very  well  satisfied  with  the  fruits  of  this  ap- 
parently ungracious  refusal.  She  went  to  the  city 
less  frequently  than  before,  and  only  when  it  was  neces- 
sary. This,  he  decided,  was  significant.  It  could  have 
but  one  meaning. 

Her  dog,  Sergeant,  did  not  like  him. 


CHAPTER  IX 

A    MID-OCTOBER    DAY 

ONE  chilly,  rainy  afternoon  in  mid-October 
Courtney  appeared  at  the  house  on  the  knoll 
half  an  hour  earlier  than  was  his  custom.  Alix 
was  expecting  friends  down  from  the  city  for  tea.  From 
the  hall  where  he  was  removing  his  raincoat  he  had  a  fair 
view  through  an  open  door  of  the  north  end  of  the  long 
living-room.  Logs  were  blazing  merrily  in  the  fireplace. 
Alix  was  standing  before  the  fire,  tearing  a  sheet  of 
paper  into  small  pieces.  She  was  angry.  She  threw 
rather  than  dropped  the  bits  of  paper  into  the  flames, — 
unmistakably  she  was  furious.  He  waited  a  moment  be- 
fore entering  the  room.  Her  back  was  toward  him. 
She  turned  in  response  to  his  discreet  cough.  Even 
in  the  dim  light  that  filtered  in  from  the  grey,  leaden 
day  outside,  he  could  detect  the  heightened  colour  in 
her  cheeks,  and  as  he  advanced  he  saw  that  her  eyes 
were  wet  with  illy-suppressed  tears.  She  bit  her  lip 
and  forced  a  smile. 

He  possessed  the  philanderer's  tact.  There  was  noth- 
ing in  his  manner  to  indicate  that  he  noticed  anything 
unusual.  He  greeted  her  cheerfully  and  then,  affecting 
a  shiver,  passed  on  to  spread  his  hands  out  over  the  fire. 

"  This  is  great,'*  he  exclaimed,  his  back  to  her.     He 

was  giving  her  a  chance  to  compose  herself.     "  Nothing 

like  a  big  log  fire  to  warm  the  cockles  of  your  heart, — 

although  it  isn't  my  heart  that  needs  warming.     More- 

114 


A  MID-OCTOBER  DAY  115 

over,  I  don't  know  what  cockles  are.  I  must  look  'em 
up  in  the  dictionary.  Come  here,  Sergeant, — there's 
a  good  dog!  Come  over  and  get  warm,  old  fellow. 
Toast  your  cockles.  By  Jove,  Miss  Crown,  isn't  he 
ever  going  to  make  friends  with  me?" 

"  They  are  '  one  man '  dogs,  Mr.  Thane,"  she  re- 
plied. "  Come,  Sergeant, — if  you're  going  to  be  im- 
polite you  must  leave  the  room.  Excuse  me  a  moment. 
Sergeant!  Do  you  hear  me,  sir?  Come!" 

The  big  grey  dog  followed  her  slowly,  reluctantly, 
from  the  room.  Courtney  heard  her  going  up  the  stairs. 

"  That  nasty  brute  is  going  to  take  a  bite  out  of  me 
some  day,"  he  muttered  under  his  breath.  "  Fat 
chance  I'd  have  to  kiss  her  with  that  beast  around." 

He  heard  the  closing  of  an  upstairs  door.  His 
thoughts  were  still  of  the  police  dog. 

"  There's  one  thing  sure,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  That 
dog  and  I  can't  live  in  the  same  house."  Then  his 
thoughts  rose  swiftly  to  that  upstairs  room, — he  was 
sure  it  was  a  dainty,  inviting  room, — to  picture  her  be- 
fore the  mirror  erasing  all  visible  evidence  of  agitation. 
He  found  himself  wondering  what  it  was  that  caused 
this  exhibition  of  temper.  A  letter?  Of  course, — a 
letter.  A  letter  that  contained  something  she  resented, 
something  that  infuriated  her.  A  personal  matter,  not 
a  business  one.  She  would  not  have  treated  a  business 
matter  in  such  a  way.  He  knew  her  too  well  for  that. 
The  leaping  flames  gave  no  hint  of  what  they  had  de- 
stroyed. Was  it  an  anonymous  letter?  Had  it  any- 
thing to  do  with  him? 

His  eye  fell  upon  several  envelopes  on  the  library 
table.  After  a  moment's  hesitation  and  a  quick  glance 
toward  the  door,  he  strode  over  to  inspect  them.  They 


116  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

were  all  unopened.  Two  were  postmarked  Chicago,  one 
New  York;  on  the  others  the  postmarks  were  indis- 
tinct. The  handwriting  was  feminine  on  most  of  them. 
A  narrow,  folded  slip  of  paper  lay  a  little  detached 
from  the  letters.  He  picked  it  up  and  quickly  opened 
it.  It  proved  to  be  a  check  on  a  Philadelphia  bank.  A 
glance  sufficed  to  show  that  it  was  for  two  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars,  payable  to  the  order  of  Alix  Crown,  and 
signed  "  D.  W.  Strong." 

The  door  upstairs  was  opened  and  closed.  Replacing 
the  bit  of  paper  on  the  table,  he  resumed  his  position 
before  the  fire.  Quite  a  different  Alix  entered  the  room 
a  few  seconds  later.  She  was  smiling,  her  eyes  were 
soft  and  tranquil.  All  traces  of  the  passing  tempest 
were  gone. 

"  Sit  down, — draw  this  big  chair  up  to  the  fire, — do. 
It  is  raw  and  nasty  today,  isn't  it?  I  think  the  Mallons 
are  coming  out  in  an  open  car.  Isn't  it  too  bad  ?  " 

"Bad  for  the  curls,"  he  drawled.  "Mind  if  I 
smoke?" 

"  Certainly  not.  Don't  you  know  that  by  this 
time?  " 

He  had  drawn  a  chair  up  beside  hers.  Her  reply 
afforded  him  a  very  definite  sense  of  elation. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  the  world  is  getting  to  be  a 
rather  heavenly  place  to  live  in,"  he  said,  and  there  was 
a  trace  of  real  feeling  in  his  voice.  "  You  don't  mind 
my  saying  it's  entirely  due  to  you,  do  you?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  she  said  calmly.  "  Charlie  Web- 
ster once  paraphrased  a  time-honoured  saying.  He 
said  '  In  the  fall  an  old  man's  fancy  slightly  turns  to 
thoughts  of  comfort.'  I  sha'n't  deprive  my  fireplace 


A  MID-OCTOBER  DAY  117 

and  my  big  armchair  of  their  just  due  by  believing  a 
word  of  what  you  say." 

He  tossed  the  match  into  the  fire,  drew  in  a  deep 
breath  of  smoke,  settled  himself  comfortably  in  the 
chair  before  exhaling,  and  then  remarked : 

"  But  I  don't  happen  to  be  an  old  man.  I  happen 
to  be  a  rather  young  one, — and  a  very  truthful  one 
to  boot." 

"  Do  you  always  tell  the  truth?  " 

He  grinned.  "  More  or  less  always,"  was  his  reply. 
"  I  never  lie  in  October/* 

"And  the  other  eleven  months  of  the  year?  " 

"  Oh,  I  merely  change  the  wording.  In  July  I  say 
*  I  never  lie  in  July,' — and  so  on  throughout  the  twelve- 
month. I  don't  slight  a  single  month.  By  the  by,  I 
hope  I  didn't  pop  in  too  far  ahead  of  time  this  after- 
noon. You  asked  me  to  come  at  four.  I'm  half  an 
hour  early.  Were  you  occupied  with  anything —  " 

"  I  was  not  busy.  A  few  letters, — but  they  can 
wait."  He  caught  the  faint  shadow  of  a  cloud  as  it 
flitted  across  her  eyes.  "  They  are  all  personal, — 
nothing  important  in  any  of  them,  I  am  sure." 

She  shot  a  quick  glance  at  the  folded  check  and, 
arising  abruptly,  went  over  to  the  table  where,  with 
apparent  unconcern,  she  ran  through  the  little  pile  of 
letters.  He  saw  her  pick  up  the  check  and  thrust  it 
into  the  pocket  of  her  sport  skirt.  Then  she  returned 
to  the  fireplace.  The  cloud  was  on  her  brow  again 
as  she  stared  darkly  into  the  crackling  flames.  He 
knew  now  that  it  was  Strong's  letter  she  had  destroyed 
in  anger.  He  would  have  given  much  to  know  what 
the  man  she  despised  so  heartily  had  written  to  her. 


118  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

If  he  could  have  seen  that  brief  note  he  would  have 
read: 

DEAR  ALIX: 

I  enclose  my  checque  for  two-fifty.  If  all  goes  well  I 
hope  to  clean  up  the  indebtedness  by  the  first  of  the  year. 
In  any  case,  I  am  sure  it  can  be  accomplished  by  early 
spring.  You  may  thank  the  flu  for  my  present  prosperity. 
It  has  been  pretty  bad  here  in  the  East  again,  although 
not  so  virulent  as  before.  Please  credit  me  with  the  amount. 
This  leaves  me  owing  you  five  hundred  dollars.  It  should 
not  take  long  to  wipe  it  out  entirely,  interest  and  all. 

Sincerely  yours, 

DAVID. 

Courtney  eyed  her  narrowly  as  she  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment looking  into  the  fire  before  resuming  her  seat.  He 
realized  that  her  thoughts  were  far  away  and  that  they 
were  not  pleasant. 

"  It's  queer,"  he  said  presently,  "  that  you  have 
never  learned  to  smoke." 

She  started  slightly  at  the  sound  of  his  voice.  As 
she  turned  to  sit  down,  he  went  on : 

"  Almost  every  girl  I  know  smokes.  I  will  not  say 
that  I  like  to  see  it,— especially  in  restaurants  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing, — but  it's  rather  jolly  if  there's  a 
nice,  cosy  fire  like  this, — see  what  I  mean?  Sort  of 
intimate,  and  friendly,  and — soothing.  Don't  you  want 
to  try  one  now  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  no.  If  it  weren't  so  shocking,  I  think 
I  should  like  to  learn  how  to  smoke  a  pipe, — but  I  sup- 
pose that  isn't  to  be  thought  of.  Somehow  I  feel  that 
a  pipe  might  be  a  pal,  a  good  old  stand-by,  or  even  a 
relative, — something  to  depend  upon  in  all  sorts  of 


A  MID-OCTOBER  DAY  119 

weather,  fair  and  foul.  I've  noticed  that  the  men  on 
the  place  who  smoke  pipes  appear  to  be  contented  and 
jolly  and  good  humoured, — and  efficient.  Yes,  I  think 
I  should  like  to  smoke  a  pipe." 

"  Would  you  like  me  better  if  I  cut  out  the  ciga- 
rettes, and  took  up  the  pipe  of  peace — and  content- 
ment ?  "  he  inquired  thoughtfully. 

"  I  doubt  it,"  she  replied,  smiling.  "  I  can't  imagine 
you  smoking  a  pipe." 

"  Is  that  supposed  to  be  flat'tering  or  scornful?  " 
"  Neither.  It  is  an  impression,  that's  all." 
He  frowned  slightly.  "  I  used  to  smoke  a  pipe, — in 
college,  you  know.  Up  to  my  sophomore  year.  It  was 
supposed  to  indicate  maturity.  But  I  don't  believe  I'd 
have  the  courage  to  tackle  one  now,  Miss  Crown.  Not 
since  that  little  gas  experience  over  there.  You  see, 
my  throat  isn't  what  it  was  in  those  good  old  freshman 
days.  Pipe  smoke, — you  may  even  say  tobacco  smoke, 
for  heaven  only  knows  what  these  cigarettes  are  made 
of, — pipe  smoke  is  too  strong.  My  throat  is  so  con- 
founded sensitive  I — well,  I'd  probably  cough  my  head 
off.  That  beastly  gas  made  a  coward  of  me,  I  fear. 
You've  no  idea  what  it  does  to  a  fellow's  throat  and 
lungs.  If  I  live  to  be  a  thousand  years  old,  I'll  never 
forget  the  tortures  I  went  through  for  weeks, — yes, 
ages.  Every  breath  was  like  a  knife  cutting  the  very — 
But  what  a  stupid  fool  I  am!  Distressing  you  with 
all  these  wretched  details.  Please  forgive  me." 

She  was  looking  at  him  wonderingly.  "  You  are  so 
different  from  the  poor  fellows  I  saw  in  New  York," 
she  said  slowly.  "  I  mean  the  men  who  had  been  gassed 
and  shell-shocked.  I  saw  loads  of  them  in  the  hospitals, 
you  know, — and  talked  with  them.  I  was  always  tre- 


120  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

mendously  affected  by  their  silence,  their  moodiness, 
their  unwillingness  to  speak  of  what  they  had  been 
through.  The  other  men,  the  ones  who  had  lost  legs  or 
arms  or  even  their  eyes, — were  as  a  rule  cheerful  and 
as  chatty  as  could  be, — oh,  how  my  heart  used  to  ache 
for  them, — but  the  shell-shock  men  and  the  men  who 
had  been  gassed,  why,  it  was  impossible  to  get  them  to 
talk  about  themselves.  I  have  seen  some  of  them  since 
then.  They  are  apparently  well  and  strong,  and  yet 
not  one  word  can  you  get  out  of  them  about  their  suf- 
ferings. You  are  almost  unique,  Mr.  Thane.  I  am 
glad  you  feel  disposed  to  talk  about  it  all.  It  is  a  good 
sign.  It —  " 

"  I  didn't  say  -much  about  it  at  first,"  he  interrupted 
hurriedly.  "  Moreover,  Miss  Crown,"  he  went  on,  "  a 
lot  of  those  chaps, — the  majority  of  them,  in  fact,— 
worked  that  dodge  for  all  it  was  worth.  It  was  a  de- 
liberate pose  with  them.  They  had  to  act  that  way  or 
people  wouldn't  think  they'd  been  hurt  at  all.  Bunk, 
most  of  it." 

"  I  don't  believe  that,  Mr.  Thane.  I  saw  too  many 
of  them.  The  ones  with  whom  I  came  in  contact  cer- 
tainly were  not  trying  to  deceive  anybody.  They  were 
in  a  pitiable  condition,  every  last  one  of  them, — piti- 
able." 

"  I  do  not  say  that  all  of  them  were  shamming, — but 
I  am  convinced  that  a  great  many  of  them  were." 

"  The  doctors  report  that  the  shell-shock  cases —  " 

"  Ah,  the  doctors !  "  he  broke  in,  shrugging  his  shoul- 
'ders.  "  They  were  all  jolly  good  fellows.  All  you  had 
to  do  was  to  even  hint  that  you'd  been  knocked  over 
by  a  shell  that  exploded  two  hundred  yards  away  and — 
zip !  they'd  send  you  back  for  repairs.  As  for  myself, 


A  MID-OCTOBER  DAY  121 

the  only  reason  I  didn't  like  to  talk  about  my  condition 
at  first  was  because  it  hurt  my  throat  and  lungs.  It 
wasn't  because  I  was  afflicted  with  this  heroic  melan- 
choly they  talk  so  much  about.  I  was  mighty  glad  to 
be  alive.  I  couldn't  see  anything  to  mope  about, — cer- 
tainly not  after  I  found  out  I  wasn't  going  to  die." 

"  I  daresay  there  were  others  who  took  it  as  you 
did.  I  wish  there  could  have  been  more." 

He  hesitated  a  moment  before  speaking  again.  Then 
he  hazarded  the  question : 

"  What  does  your  friend,  Dr.  Strong,  have  to  say 
about  the  general  run  of  such  cases?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  have  not  seen  Dr.  Strong  since  the 
war  ended." 

He  looked  mildly  surprised.  "  Hasn't  he  been  home 
since  the  war?  " 

"  I  believe-so.    I  was  away  at  the  time." 

"  How  long  was  he  in  France?  " 

"  He  went  over  first  in  1916  and  again  in  the  fall  of 
1917,  and  remained  till  the  end  of  the  war.  His  mother 
is  here  with  me,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  By  Jove,  I  envy  him  one  thing, — 
lucky  dog."  She  remained  silent.  "  You  were  play- 
mates, weren't  you?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  lifting  her  chin  slightly. 

"  Well,  that's  why  I  envy  him.  To  have  been  your 
playmate, —  Why,  I  envy  him  every  minute  of  his  boy- 
hood. When  I  think  of  my  own  boyhood  and  how  little- 
there  was  to  it  that  a  real  boy  should  have,  I — I — con- 
found it,  I  almost  find  myself  hating  chaps  like  Strong, 
chaps  who  lived  in  the  country  and  had  regular  pals, 
and  girl  sweethearts,  and  went  fishing  and  hunting,  and 
played  hookey  as  it  ought  to  be  played,  and  grew  up 


122  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

with  something  fine  and  sweet  and  wholesome  to  look 
back  upon, — and  to  have  had  you  for  a  playmate, — -. 
maybe  a  sweetheart, — you  in  short  frocks,  with  your 
hair  in  pigtails,  barefooted  in  summertime,  running —  " 

She  interrupted  him.  "  Your  imagination  is  at  fault 
there,  Mr.  Thane,"  she  said,  smiling  once  more.  "  I 
never  went  barefooted  in  my  life." 

"  At  any  rate,  he  did.  And  he  played  all  sorts  of 
games  with  you ;  he —  " 

"  My  impression  of  David  Strong  is  that  he  was  a 
boy's  boy,"  she  broke  in  rather  stiffly.  "  His  games 
were  with  the  boys  of  the  town, — and  they  were  rough 
games.  Football,  baseball,  shinney,  circus, — things  like 
that." 

"  I  don't  mean  sports,  Miss  Crown.  I  was  thinking 
of  those  wonderful  boy  and  girl  games, — such  as 
*  playing  house,'  *  getting  married,'  *  hide-and-go-seek,5 
^all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  she  admitted.  "  We  often  played  at 
getting  married,  and  we  had  very  large  but  inanimate 
families,  and  we  quarrelled  like  real  married  people,  and 
I  used  to  cry  and  take  my  playthings  home,  and  he 
used  to  stand  outside  our  fence  and  make  faces  at  me 
till  I  hated  him  ferociously.  But  all  that  was  when 
we  were  very  small,  you  see." 

"  And  as  all  such  things  turn  out,  I  suppose  he  grew 
up  and  went  off  and  got  married  to  some  one  else." 

"  He  is  not  married,  Mr.  Thane." 

"  Well,  for  that  matter,  neither  are  you,"  said  he, 
leaning  forward,  his  eyes  fixed  intently  on  hers.  She 
did  not  flinch.  "  I  wonder  just  how  you  feel  toward 
him  today,  Miss  Crown." 

She  was  incapable  of  coquetry.     "  We  are  not  the 


A  MID-OCTOBER  DAY  123 

best  of  friends,"  she  said  quietly.  "  Now,  if  you  please, 
let  us  talk  of  something  else.  Did  I  tell  you  that  an 
old  Ambulance  man  is  coming  down  for  a  day  or  two 
next  week  ?  A  Harvard  man  who  lives  in  Chicago.  His 
sister  and  I  went  to  New  York  together  to  take  our 
chances  there  on  getting  over  to  France.  I  think  I've 
told  you  about  her, — Mary  Bly the  ?  " 

"Ely  the?"  repeated  Courtney  thoughtfully. 
"  Blythe.  Seems  to  me  I  heard  of  a  chap  named  Blythe 
over  there  in  the  Ambulance,  but  I  don't  remember 
whether  I  ran  across  him  anywhere  or  not.  He  may 
have  been  after  my  time,  however.  I  was  with  the 
Ambulance  in  '15  and  the  early  part  of  '16,  you  see." 

"  Addison  Blythe.  He  was  afterwards  a  Field  Artil- 
lery captain.  I've  known  Mary  Blythe  for  years,  but 
I  know  him  very  slightly.  He  went  direct  from  Har- 
yard  to  France,  you  see." 

"What  section  was  he  with?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  only  know  he  was  at  Pont-a-Mous- 
son for  several  months.  You  were  there  too  at  one 
time,  I  remember.  I've  heard  him  speak  of  the  Bois  le 
Pretre.  You  may  have  been,  there  at  the  same  time." 

"  Hardly  possible.  I  should  have  known  him  in  that 
case.  My  section  was  sent  up  to  Bar  le  Due  just  be- 
fore the  first  big  Verdun  battle." 

*  Why,  he  was  all  through  the  first  battle  of  Verdun. 
His  section  was  transferred  from  Pont-a-Mousson  at 
an  hour's  notice.  Were  there  more  than  one  section 
at  Pont-a-Mousson?  " 

"  I  don't  know  how  they  were  fixed  after  I  left.  You 
see,  I  was  trying  to  get  into  the  aviation  end  of  the 
game  along  about  that  time.  I  was  in  an  aviation  camp 
lor  a  couple  of  months,  but  went  back  to  the  Ambulance 


124  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

just  before  the  Verdun  scrap.  They  slapped  me  into 
another  section,  of  course.  I  used  to  see  fellows  from 
my  own  section  occasionally,  but  I  don't  recall  any  one 
named  Blythe.  He  probably  was  sent  up  while  I  was 
at  Toul, — or  it  may  have  been  during  the  time  I  was 
with  a  section  in  the  Vosges.  I  was  up  near  Dunkirk 
too  for  a  while, — only  for  a  few  weeks.  When  did  you 
say  he  was  coming?  " 

"Next  Tuesday.  They  are  stopping  off  on  their 
way  to  attend  a  wedding  in  Louisville.  You  two  will 
have  a  wonderful  time  reminiscing." 

"  Blythe.  I'll  rummage  around  in  my  memory  and 
jsee  if  I  can  place  him.  There  was  a  fellow  named  Bright 
up  there  at  one  time, — at  least  I  got  the  name  as 
Bright.  It  may  have  been  Blythe.  I'll  be  tickled  to 
Ideath  to  meet  him,  Miss  Crown." 

"  You  will  love  Mary  Blythe.     She  is  a  darling." 

"  I  may  be  susceptible,  Miss  Crown,  but  I  am  not 
inconstant,"  said  he,  with  a  gallant  bow. 

She  was  annoyed  with  herself  for  blushing. 

*'  Will  you  throw  another  log  or  two  on  the  fire, 
please?"  she  said,  arising.  "I  think  I  hear  a  car 
coming  up  the  drive.  The  poor  Mallons  will  be  chilled 
to  the  bone." 

He  smiled  to  himself  as  he  took  the  long  hickory  logs 
from  the  wood  box  and  placed  them  carefully  on  the 
fire.  He  had  seen  the  swift  flood  of  colour  mount  to 
her  cheeks,  and  the  odd  little  waver  in  her  eyes  before 
she  turned  them  away.  She  was  at  the  window,  looking 
out,  when  he  straightened  himself  and  gingerly  brushed 
the  wood  dust  from  his  hands.  Instead  of  joining  her, 
he  remained  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  his  feet  spread 
apart,  his  hands  in  his  coat  pockets,  comforting  him- 


A  MID-OCTOBER  DAY  125 

self  with  the  thought  that  she  was  wondering  why  he 
had  not  followed  her.  It  was,  he  rejoiced,  a  very  clever 
bit  of  strategy  on  his  part.  He  waited  for  her  to  turn 
away  from  the  window  and  say,  with  well-assumed  per- 
plexity :  "  I  was  sure  I  heard  a  car,  Mr.  Thane." 

And  that  is  exactly  what  she  did  say  after  a  short 
interval,  adding: 

"  It  must  have  been  the  wind  in  the  chimney." 

"  Very  likely,"  he  agreed. 

She  remained  at  the  window.  He  held  his  position 
before  the  fire. 

"  If  I  were  just  a  plain  damned  fool,"  he  was  saying 
to  himself,  "  I'd  rush  over  there  and  spoil  everything. 
It's  too  soon, — too  soon.  She's  not  ready  yet, — not 
ready." 

Alix,  looking  out  across  the  porch  into  the  grey 
drizzle  that  drenched  the  lawn,  thrust  her  hand  into 
her  skirt  pocket  and,  clutching  the  bit  of  paper  in  her 
fingers,  crumpled  it  into  a  small  ball.  Her  eyes  were 
serene,  however,  as  she  turned  away  and  walked  back 
to  the  fireplace. 

"  I  don't  believe  they  are  coming,  after  all.  I  think 
they  might  have  telephoned,"  she  said,  glancing  up  at 
the  old  French  ormula  clock  on  the  mantelpiece. 
"  Half-past  four.  We  will  wait  a  few  minutes  longer 
and  then  have  tea." 

His  heart  gave  a  sudden  thump.  Was  it  possible — 
but  no!  She  would  not  stoop  to  anything  like  that. 
The  little  thrill  of  exultation  departed  as  quickly  as 
it  came. 

"  Tire  trouble,  perhaps,"  he  ventured. 

Tea  was  being  brought  in  when  the  belated  guests 
arrived.  Courtney,  spurred  by  the  brief  vision  of  sue- 


126  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

cess  ahead,  was  never  in  better  form,  never  more  en- 
tertaining, never  so  well  provided  with  polite  cynicisms. 
Later  on,  when  he  and  Alix  were  alone  and  he  was 
putting  on  his  raincoat  in  the  hall,  she  said  to  him 
impulsively : 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  without  you, 
Mr.  Thane.  You  were  splendid.  I  was  in  no  mood  to 
be  nice  or  agreeable  to  anybody." 

"  Alas !  "  he  sighed.  "  That  shows  how  unobserving 
I  am.  I  could  have  sworn  you  were  in  a  perfectly 
adorable  mood." 

"  Well,  I  wasn't,"  she  said  stubbornly.  "  I  was  quite 
horrid." 

"  Has  anything  happened  to — to  distress  you,  Miss 
Crown?"  he  inquired  anxiously.  His  voice  was  husky 
and  a  trifle  unsteady.  "  Can't  you  tell  me?  Sometimes 
it  helps  to—" 

"  Nothing  has  happened,"  she  interrupted  nervously. 
"  I  was— just  stupid,  that's  all." 

"When  am  I  to  see  you  again?"  he  asked,  after  a 
perceptible  pause.  "  May  I  come  tonight  ?  " 

"  Not  tonight,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head. 

She  gave  no  reason, — nothing  more  than  the  two 
little  words, — and  yet  he  went  away  exulting.  He 
walked  home  through  the  light,  gusty  rain,  so  elated 
that  he  forgot  to  use  his  cane, — and  he  had  limped  quite 
painfully  earlier  in  the  afternoon,  complaining  of  the 
dampness  and  chill.  He  had  the  habit  of  talking  to 
himself  when  walking  alone  in  the  darkness.  He  thought 
aloud : 

"  She  wants  to  be  alone, — she  wants  to  think.  She 
has  suddenly  realized.  She  is  frightened.  She  doesn't 
understand.  She  is  bewildered.  She  doesn't  want  to 


A  MID-OCTOBER  DAY  127 

see  me  tonight.  Bless  her  heart !  I'll  bet  my  head  she 
idoesn't  sleep  a  wink.  And  tomorrow?  Tomorrow  I 
shall  see  her.  But  not  a  word,  not  a  sign  out  of  me. 
Not  tomorrow  or  next  day  or  the  day  after  that.  Keep 
her  thinking,  keep  her  guessing,  keep  her  wondering 
whether  I  really  care.  Pretty  soon  she'll  realize  how 
miserable  she  is, — and  then!" 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    CHIMNEY    CORNER 

A  LINCOLN  POLLOCK  was  full  of  news  at 
supper  that  evening.  Courtney,  coming  in  a 
•  little  late,— in  fact,  Miss  Margaret  Slattery 
already  had  removed  the  soup  plates  and  was  begin- 
ning to  wonder  audibly  whether  a  certain  guy  thought 
she  was  a  truck-horse  or  something  like  that, — found 
the  editor  of  the  Sun  anticipating  by  at  least  twelve 
hours  the  forthcoming  issue  of  his  paper.  He  was 
regaling  his  fellow-boarders  with  news  that  would  be 
off  the  press  the  first  thing  in  the  morning, — having 
been  confined  to  the  composing-room  for  the  better  part 
of  a  week, — and  he  was  enjoying  himself.  Charlie  Web- 
ster once  made  the  remark  that  "  every  time  the  Sun 
goes  to  press,  Link  Pollock  acts  for  all  the  world  like 
a  hen  that's  just  laid  an  egg,  he  cackles  so." 

"  I  saw  Nancy  Strong  this  morning  and  she  was 
telling  me  about  a  letter  she  had  from  David  yesterday. 
He  wants  her  to  pack  up  and  come  to  Philadelphia, 
Pennsylvania,  to  live  with  him.  He  says  he'll  take  a 
nice  little  apartment,  big  enough  for  the  two  of  'em, 
if  she'll  only  come.  She  can't  make  up  her  mind  what 
to  do.  She's  so  fond  of  Alix  she  don't  see  how  she  can 
desert  her, — at  least,  not  till  she  gets  married, — and 
yet  she  feels  she  owes  it  to  her  son  to  go  and  make  a 
home  for  him.  Every  once  in  a  while  Alix  makes  her 
128 


THE  CHIMNEY  CORNER  129 

a  present  of  a  hundred  dollars  or  so, — once  she  gave 
her  three  hundred  in  cold,  clean  cash, — and  actually 
loves  her  as  if  she  was  her  own  mother.  Nancy's  ter- 
ribly upset.  She  is  devoted  to  Alix,  and  at  the  same 
time  she's  devoted  to  her  son.  She  seemed  to  want  my 
advice,  but  of  course  I  couldn't  give  her  any.  It's 
a  thing  she's  got  to  work  out  for  herself.  I  couldn't 
advise  her  to  leave  Alix  in  the  lurch  and  I  couldn't  ad- 
vise her  to  turn  her  back  on  her  only  son, — could  I?  " 

"  How  soon  does  David  want  her  to  come?  "  inquired 
Miss  Molly  Dowd. 

"  Before  Christmas,  I  believe.  He  wants  her  to  be 
with  him  on  Christmas  day." 

"  Well,  it  would  work  out  very  nicely,"  said  Mrs. 
Pollock,  "  if  Alix  would  only  get  married  before  that 
time." 

"  I  guess  that's  just  what  Nancy  is  kind  of  hoping 
herself,"  stated  Mr.  Pollock.  "  It  would  simplify  every- 
thing. Of  course,  when  she  told  Alix  about  David's 
letter  and  what  he  wanted  her  to  do,  Alix  was  mighty 
nice  about  it.  She  told  Nancy  to  go  by  all  means,  her 
place  was  with  her  son  if  he  needed  her,  and  she  wouldn't 
stand  in  the  way  for  the  world.  Nancy  says  she  had 
about  made  up  her  mind  to  go,  but  changed  it  last 
night.  She  was  telling  me  about  sneaking  up  to  Alix's 
bedroom  door  and  listening.  Alix  was  crying,  sort  of 
sobbing,  you  know.  That  settled  it  with  Nancy, — tem- 
porarily at  any  rate.  Now  she's  up  in  the  air  again, 
and  don't  know  what  to  do.  She's  gone  and  told  Alix 
she  won't  leave  her,  but  all  the  time  she  keeps  wonder- 
ing if  Davy  can  get  along  without  her  in  that  great 
big  city,  surrounded  by  all  kinds  of  perils  and  traps 
and  pitfalls, — night  and  day.  Evil  women  and — " 


130  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"Has  Alix  said  anything  to  you  about  it,  Mr. 
Thane?  "  inquired  Maude  Baggs  Pollock. 

"  Not  a  word,"  replied  Courtney,  secretly  irritated 
by  the  discovery  that  Alix  had  failed  to  take  him  into 
her  confidence.  "  She  doesn't  discuss  servant  troubles 
with  me." 

"  Oh,  good  gracious  !  "  cried  Miss  Dowd.  "  If  Nancy 
Strong  ever  heard  you  speak  of  her  as  a  servant 
she'd—" 

"  She'd  bite  your  head  off,"  put  in  Miss  Margaret 
Slattery.  "Are  you  through  with  your  soup,  Mr. 
Thane?"  Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  she  re- 
moved the  plate  with  considerable  abruptness. 

"  Are  you  angry  with  me,  Margaret  ?  "  he  asked, 
with  a  reproachful  smile.  His  smile  was  too  much 
for  Margaret.  She  blushed  and  mumbled  something 
about  being  sorry  and  having  a  headache. 

"  Say,  Court,  do  you  know  this  Ambulance  feller 
that's  coming  to  visit  Alix  next  week  ?  "  asked  the  edi- 
tor, with  interest. 

"You  mean  Addison  Blythe?  He  was  up  at  Pont-a- 
Mousson  for  a  while,  I  believe,  but  it  was  after  I  had 
left  for  the  Vosges  section.  I've  heard  of  him.  Harvard 
man." 

"  You  two  ought  to  have  a  good  time  when  you  get 
together,"  said  Doc  Simpson. 

"  I've  got  an  item  in  the  Stm  about  him  this  week, 
and  next  week  we'll  have  an  interview  with  him." 

The  usually  loquacious  Mr.  Webster  had  been  silent 
since  Courtney's  arrival.  Now  he  lifted  his  voice  to 
put  a  question  to  Miss  Angie  Miller,  across  the  table. 

"  Did  you  write  that  letter  I  spoke  about  the  other 
iday,  Angie?  " 


THE  CHIMNEY  CORNER  131 

"  Yes, — but  there  hasn't  been  time  for  an  answer 
yet." 

"  Speaking  about  David  Strong,"  remarked  Mr. 
Pollock,  "  I'll  never  forget  what  he  did  when  Mr.  Win- 
dom  gave  him  a  silver  watch  for  his  twelfth  birthday. 
Shows  what  a  bright,  progressive,  enterprising  feller 
he  was  even  at  that  age.  You  remember,  Miss  Molly? 
I  mean  about  his  setting  his  watch  fifteen  minutes 
ahead  the  very  day  he  got  it." 

Miss  Molly  smiled.    "  It  was  cute  of  him,  wasn't  it?  " 

"  What  was  the  idea?  "  inquired  Mr.  Hatch. 

"  So's  he  would  know  what  time  it  was  fifteen  min- 
utes sooner  than  anybody  else  in  town,"  said  Mr.  Pol- 
lock. 

"  My,  what  a  handsome  boy  he  was,"  said  Miss  Angie 
Miller. 

"  Do  you  really  think  so?  »  cried  Mrs.  Pollock.  "  I 
never  could  see  anything  good  looking  about  him, — ex- 
cept his  physique.  He  has  a  splendid  physique,  but  I 
never  liked  his  face.  It's  so — so — well,  so,  raw-boned 
and  all.  I  like  smooth,  regular  features  in  a  man.  I — " 

"Like  mine,"  interjected  the  pudgy  Mr.  Webster, 
with  a  very  serious  face. 

"  David  Strong  has  what  I  call  a  very  rugged  face," 
said  Miss  Miller.  "  I  didn't  say  it  was  pretty,  Maude." 

"  He  takes  a  very  good  photograph,"  remarked  Mr. 
Hatch.  "  Specially  a  side-view.  I've  got  one  side-view 
of  him  over  at  the  gallery  that  makes  me  think  of  an 
Indian  every  time  I  look  at  it." 

"  Perhaps  he  has  Indian  blood  in  him,"  suggested 
Courtney,  who  was  tired  of  David  Strong. 

"  Well,  every  drop  of  blood  he's  got  in  him  is  red," 
said  Charlie  Webster ;  "  so  maybe  you're  right." 


132  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"  The  most  interesting  item  in  the  Sun  tomorrow," 
said  Mr.  Pollock,  "  is  the  word  that  young  Cale  Vick, 
across  the  river,  has  enlisted  in  the  navy.  He  leaves 
en  Monday  for  Chicago  to  join  some  sort  of  a  training 
school,  preparatory  to  taking  a  job  on  one  of  Uncle 
Sam's  newest  battleships, — the  biggest  in  the  world,  ac- 
cording to  his  grandfather,  who  was  in  to  see  me  a 
day  or  two  ago.  I  have  promised  to  send  young  Cale 
the  Sum,  for  a  year  without  charging  him  a  cent.  Old 
man  Brown  says  Amos  Vick's  daughter  Rosabel  isn't 
at  all  well.  Something  like  walking  typhoid,  he  says, 
— mopes  a  good  deal  and  don't  sleep  well." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sorry  to  hear  that,"  exclaimed  Courtney, 
real  concern  in  his  voice.  "  She  was  such  a  lively,  light- 
hearted  girl  when  I  was  over  there.  I  can't  imagine 
her  moping.  I  hope  Amos  Vick  isn't  too  close-fisted 
to  consult  a  doctor.  He's  an  awful  tight-wad — believe 
me." 

"  Doctor  can't  seem  to  find  anything  really  the  mat- 
ter with  her,  so  old  Cale  Brown  told  me,"  said  Mr. 
Pollock.  "  But  don't  you  think  it's  fine  of  young  Cale 
to  join  the  navy,  Court?  Maybe  your  tales  about  the 
war  put  it  into  his  head." 

"  It's  more  likely  that  he'd  got  fed  up  with  life  on 
a  farm,"  said  Courtney.  "  He'll  find  himself  longing 
for  the  farm  and  mother  a  good  many  times  before  he's 
through  with  the  navy." 

Instead  of  going  up  to  his  room  immediately  after 
supper,  as  was  his  custom  of  late,  Courtney  joined 
the  company  in  the  "  lounging  room,"  so  named  by  Mr. 
Webster  who  contended  that  no  first-class  hotel  ever 
had  such  a  thing  as  a  parlour  any  more.  The  Misses 
Dowd,  of  course,  called  it  the  parlour,  but  as  they  con- 


THE  CHIMNEY  CORNER  133 

tinued  to  refer  to  the  fireplace  as  the  "  chimney  cor- 
ner," one  may  readily  forgive  their  reluctance  to  prog- 
ress. Smoking  was  permitted  in  the  "  lounging  room  " 
during  the  fall  and  winter  months  only. 

A  steady  rain  was  beating  against  the  windows,  and 
a  rising  wind  made  itself  heard  in  feeble  wails  as  it 
turned  the  dark  corners  of  the  Tavern.  Presently  it 
was  to  howl  and  shriek,  and,  as  the  rain  ceased,  to  rattle' 
the  window  shutters  and  the  ancient,  creaking  sign 
that  hung  out  over  the  porch, — for  on  the  wind  to- 
night came  the  first  chill  touch  of  winter. 

"  A  fine  night  to  be  indoors,'*  remarked  Courtney  in 
his  most  genial  manner  as  he  moved  a  rocking  chair 
up  to  the  fireplace  and  gallantly  indicated  to  old  Mrs. 
Nichols  that  it  was  intended  for  her. 

"  Ain't  you  going  out  tonight,  Court?  "  inquired  Mr. 
Hatch. 

"  Iron  horses  couldn't  drag  me  out  tonight,"  he  re- 
plied. "  Sit  here,  Mrs.  Pollock.  Doc,  pull  up  that  sofa 
for  Miss  Grady  and  Miss  Miller.  Let's  have  a  chimney- 
corner  symposium.  Is  symposium  the  right  word,  Miss 
Miller?  Ah,  I  see  it  isn't.  Well,  I  did  my  best.  I  could 
have  got  away  with  it  in  New  York,  but  no  chance 
here.  And  speaking  of  New  York  reminds  me  that  at 
this  very  instant  the  curtains  are  going  up  and  the 
lights  are  going  down  in  half  a  hundred  theatres, — and 
I  don't  mind  confessing  I'd  like  to  be  in  one  of  them." 

"  That's  one  thing  I  envy  New  York  for,"  said  Mrs. 
Pollock.  "  Hand  me  my  knitting  off  the  table,  Lincoln, 
please.  I  love  the  theatre.  I  could  go  every  night — " 

"  You  get  tired  of  them  after  a  little  while,  Maude," 
said  Flora  Grady,  a  trifle  languidly.  "  Isn't  that  so, 
Mr.  Thane?" 


134  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"  Quite,"  agreed  Courtney.  "  You  get  fed  up  witB 
'em." 

"  I  remember  once  when  I  -was  in  New  York  going 
six  nights  in  succession,  seeing  all  the  best  things  on 
the  boards  at  that  time,  and  I  give  you  my  word,"  said 
Miss  Grady,  "  they  did  feed  me  up  terribly." 

"I  know  just  what  you  mean,  Miss  Grady,"  said 
Courtney,  without  cracking  a  smile.  "One  gets  so 
bored  with  the  best  plays  in  town.  What  one  really 
ought  to  do,  you  know,  is  to  go  to  the  worst  ones." 

"  I've  always  wanted  to  see  «  The  Blue  Bird,' "  said 
Miss  Miller  wistfully.  "It's  by  Maeterlinck,  Mr. 
Nichols." 

Old  Mr.  Nichols  looked  interested.  "  You  don't  say 
so,"  he  ejaculated.  "  Give  me  a  good  minstrel  show, — 
that's  what  I  like.  Haverly's  or  Barlow,  Wilson,  Prim- 
rose &  West,  or  Billy  Emerson's  or — say,  did  you  ever 
see  Luke  Schoolcraft?  Well,  sir,  there  was  the  fun- 
niest end  man  I  ever  see.  There  used  to  be  another 
minstrel  man  named, — er — lemme  see, — now  what  was 
that  feller's  name?  It  begin  with  L,  I  think — or  maybe 
it  was  W.  Now — lemme — think.  Go  on  talkin',  the 
rest  of  you.  I'll  think  of  his  name  before  bedtime." 
Whereupon  the  ancient  Mr.  Nichols  relapsed  into  a 
profound  state  of  thought  from  which  he  did  not 
emerge  until  Mr.  Webster  shook  his  shoulder  some  fif- 
teen or  twenty  minutes  later  and  informed  him  that 
if  he  got  any  worse  Mrs.  Nichols  would  be  able  to 
hear  him,  and  then  she  couldn't  go  'round  telling  people 
that  he  slept  just  like  a  baby. 

Courtney  was  in  his  element.  He  liked  talking  about 
the  stage,  and  stage  people.  And  on  this  night, — of 
all  nights,— he  wanted  to  talk,  he  wanted  company.  The 


THE  CHIMNEY.  CORNER  135 

clock  on  the  mantel-piece  struck  ten  and  half-past  and 
was  close  to  striking  eleven  before  any  one  made  a  move 
toward  retiring, — excepting  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Nichols  who 
had  gone  off  to  bed  at  eight-thirty.  The  Misses  Dowd 
had  joined  the  little  company  in  the  "  parlour."  He 
discussed  books  with  Mrs.  Pollock  and  Miss  Miller, 
fashions  with  Miss  Grady,  politics  with  Mr.  Pollock, — 
(agreeing  with  the  latter  on  President  Wilson), — art 
with  Mr.  Hatch  and  the  erudite  Miss  Miller,  the  drama 
with  every  one. 

Now,  Courtney  Thane  knew  almost  nothing  about 
books,  and  even  less  about  pictures.  He  possessed, 
however,  a  remarkable  facility  when  it  came  to  discuss- 
ing them.  He  belonged  to  that  rather  extensive  class 
of  people  who  thrive  on  ignorance.  If  you  wanted  to 
talk  about  Keats  or  Shelley,  he  managed  to  give  you 
the  impression  that  he  was  thoroughly  familiar  with 
both, — though  lamenting  a  certain  rustiness  of  mem- 
ory at  times.  He  could  talk  intelligently  about  Joseph 
Conrad,  Arnold  Bennet,  Bernard  Shaw,  Galsworthy, 
Walpole,  Mackenzie,  Wells  and  others  of  the  modern 
English  school  of  novelists, — that  is  to  say,  he  could 
differ  or  agree  with  you  on  almost  anything  they  had 
written,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  he  had  never 
read  a  line  by  any  one  of  them.  He  professed  not  to 
care  for  Thomas  Hardy's  "  Jude  the  Obscure,"  though 
nothing  could  have  been  more  obscure  to  him  than  the 
book  itself  or  the  author  thereof,  and  agreed  with  the 
delightful  Mrs.  Pollock  that  "  The  Mayor  of  Caster- 
bridge  "  was  an  infinitely  better  piece  of  work  than 
"Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles."  As  for  the  American 
writers,  he  admitted  a  shameful  ignorance  about  them. 

"  Of  course,  I  read  Scott  when  I  was  a  boy, — I  was 


136  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

compelled  to  do  so,  by  the  way, — but  as  for  the  others 
I  am  shockingly  unfamiliar  with  them.  Ever  since  I 
grew  up  I've  preferred  the  English  novelists  and  poets, 
so  I  fear  I—" 

"  I  thought  Scott  was  an  English  writer,"  put  in 
Charlie  Webster  quietly. 

"What  Scott  are  you  referring  to,  Charlie?"  he 
asked  indulgently. 

"  Why,  Sir  Walter  Scott, — he  wrote  « Ivanhoe,'  you 
know."  * 

"  Well,  I  happen  to  be  speaking  of  William  Scott, 
the  American  novelist, — no  doubt  unknown  to  most  of 
you.  He  was  one  of  the  old-timers,  and  I  fancy  has 
dropped  out  of  the  running  altogether." 

"  Never  heard  of  him,"  said  Mr.  Pollock,  scratching 
his  ear  reflectively. 

"  Indigenous  to  New  England,  I  fancy, — like  the 
estimable  codfish,"  drawled  Courtney,  and  was  rewarded 
by  a  wholesome  Middle  West  laugh. 

"What  are  those  cabarets  like?"  inquired  Mr. 
Hatch.  He  pronounced  it  as  if  he  were  saying  ciga- 
rettes. 

"  Pretty  rotten,"  said  Thane. 

"Are  you  fond  of  dancing,  Mr.  Thane?"  inquired 
Mrs.  Pollock.  "  I  used  to  love  to  trip  the  light  fan- 
tastic." 

"  I  am  very  fond  of  dancing,"  said  he,  and  then  added 
with  a  smile :  "  Especially  since  the  girls  have  taken  to 
parking  their  corsets." 

There  was  a  shocked  silence,  broken  by  Miss  Grady, 
who,  as  a  dressmaker,  was  not  quite  so  finicky  about 
the  word. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  parking?"  she  inquired. 


THE  CHIMNEY  CORNER  137 

"  Same  as  you  park  an  automobile,"  said  he,  enjoy- 
ing the  sensation  he  had  created.  "  It's  the  fashion 
now,  among  the  best  families  as  well  as  the  worst,  for 
the  girls  when  they  go  to  dances  to  leave  their  corsets 
in  the  dressing  rooms.  Check  'em,  same  as  you  do  your 
hat." 

"Bless  my  soul,"  gasped  Mr.  Pollock.  "Haven't 
they  got  any  mothers  ?  " 

"  Sure, — but  the  mothers  don't  know  anything  about 
it.  You  see,  it's  this  way.  We  fellows  won't  dance 
with  'em  if  they've  got  corsets  on, — so  off  they  come." 

"  What's  the  world  coming  to  ?  "  cried  the  editor. 

"  You'd  better  ask  where  it's  going  to,"  said  Charlie 
Webster. 

"  Do  you  go  to  the  opera  very  often?  "  asked  Miss 
Miller  nervously. 

He  spoke  rather  loftily  of  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House,  and  very  lightly  of  the  Metropolitan  Museum, 
— and  gave  Charlie  Webster  a  sharp  look  when  that 
amiable  gentleman  asked  him  what  he  thought  of  the 
Metropolitan  Tower. 

But  he  was  at  home  in  the  theatre.  He  told  them 
just  what  Maude  Adams  and  Ethel  Barrymore  were 
like,  and  Julia  Marlowe,  and  Elsie  Ferguson,  and 
Chrystal  Herne,  and  all  the  rest  of  them.  He  spoke 
familiarly  of  Mr.  Faversham  as  "  Favvy,"  of  Mr.  Col- 
lier as  "Willie,"  of  Mr.  Sothern  as  "Ned,"  of  Mr. 
Drew  as  "  John,"  of  Mr  Skinner  as  "  Otis,"  of  Mr. 
Frohman  as  "  Dan." 

And  when  he  said  good  night  and  reluctantly  wended 
his  way  to  the  room  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  round  the 
corner  of  which  the  fierce  October  gale  shrieked  de- 
risively, he  left  behind  him  a  group  enthralled. 


138  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"  Isn't  he  a  perfect  dear?  "  cried  Mrs.  Pollock,  clasp- 
ing her  hands. 

"  The  most  erudite  man  I  have  ever  met,"  agreed 
Miss  Miller  ecstatically.  "Don't  you  think  so,  Mr. 
Hatch?  " 

Mr.  Hatch  was  startled.  "  Oh, — er — yes,  indeed. 
Absolutely!"  he  stammered,  and  then  looked  inquir- 
ingly at  his  finger  nails.  He  hoped  he  had  made  the 
proper  response. 

Charlie  Webster  ambled  over  to  one  of  the  windows 
and  peered  out  intotthe  whistling  night. 

"  It's  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody  any  good,"  said 
he  sententiously. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that,  Charlie  ?  "  inquired 
Flora  Grady,  at  his  elbow. 

"Well,  if  it  had  been  a  pleasant  night  he'd  have 
been  up  at  Alix  Crown's  instead  of  here,"  said  Charlie. 

"  I  see,"  said  Flora,  after  a  moment.  "  You  mean 
the  ill  wind  favoured  Alix,  eh?  " 

Charlie's  round  face  was  unsmiling  as  he  stared  hard 
at  the  fire. 

"  I  wonder — "  he  began,  and  then  checked  the  words. 
"  Don't  you  worry  about  Alix,"  said  Flora.  "  She's 
nobody's  fool." 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  Alix  just  then,"  said  Charlie. 


II 

The  following  morning,  Courtney  went,  as  was  his 
custom,  to  the  postoffice.  He  had  arranged  for  a  lock- 
box  there.  His  letters  were  not  brought  up  to  the 
Tavern  by  old  Jim  House,  the  handy-man. 

The  day  was  bright  and  clear  and  cold;  the  gale 


THE  CHIMNEY  CORNER  139 

had  died  in  the  early  morning  hours.  Alix  Crown's 
big  automobile  was  standing  in  front  of  the  post- 
office,  the  engine  running.  Catching  sight  of  it  as  he 
left  the  Tavern  porch,  he  hastened  his  steps.  He  was 
a  good  two  hundred  yards  away  and  feared  she  would 
be  off  before  he  could  come  up  with  her.  As  he  drew 
near,  he  saw  the  lanky  chauffeur  standing  in  front 
of  the  drug  store,  chatting  with  one  of  the  villagers. 

Alix  was  in  the  postoffice.  As  he  passed  the  car,  he 
slackened  his  pace  and  glanced  over  his  shoulder  into 
the  tonneau.  The  side  curtains  were  down.  A  low 
growl  greeted  him.  He  hastened  on. 

She  was  at  the  registry  window. 

"  Hello ! "  he  exclaimed,  extending  his  hand  and 
searching  her  face  as  he  did  so  for  signs  of  a  sleepless 
night. 

"  Good  morning,"  she  responded  cheerily.  There  was 
nothing  in  her  voice,  her  eyes  or  her  manner  to  indi- 
cate an  even  remotely  disturbed  state  of  mind.  Her 
gaze  met  his  serenely;  the  colour  did  not  rush  to  her 
cheeks  as  he  had  fondly  expected,  nor  did  her  eyes 
waver  under  the  eager,  intense  gleam  in  his.  He  sud- 
denly felt  cheated. 

"  Where  are  you  off  to  this  morning?  "  he  inquired. 

"  To  town  for  the  day.  I  have  some  business  to 
attend  to  and  some  shopping  to  do.  Would  you  like 
to  come  along?  "  j 

He  was  in  a  sulky  mood. 

"  You  know  I  hate  the  very  thought  of  going  to 
town,"  he  said.  Then,  as  she  raised  her  eyebrows 
slightly,  be  made  haste  to  add :  "  I'd  go  from  one  end 
of  the  desert  of  Sahara  to  the  other  with  you,  but — " 
shaking  his  head  so  solemnly  that  she  laughed  out- 


140  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

right, — "  not  to  the  city.  Just  ask  me  to  go  to  the 
Sahara  with  you  and  see  how — " 

"  Haven't  you  had  enough  of  No-Man's  Land  ?  "  she 
cried  merrily. 

"  It  depends  on  what  you'd  call  No-Man's  Land," 
said  he,  and  her  gaze  faltered  at  last.  There  was  no 
mistaking  his  meaning.  "  Sometimes  it  is  Paradise, 
you  know,"  he  went  on  softly. 

Twice  before  she  had  seen  the  same  look  in  his  eyes, 
and  both  times  she  had  experienced  a  strange  sensa- 
tion, as  of  the  weakness  that  comes  with  ecstasy.  There 
had  been  something  in  his  eyes  that  seemed  to  caress 
her  from  head  to  foot,  something  that  filled  her  with 
the  most  disquieting  self-consciousness.  Strange  to 
say,  it  was  not  the  ardent  look  of  the  love-sick  admirer, 
— and  she  had  not  escaped  such  tributes, — nor  the  in- 
quiring look  of  the  adventurous  married  man.  It  was 
not  soulful  nor  was  it  offensive.  She  reluctantly  con- 
fessed to  herself  that  it  was  warm  and  penetrating  and 
filled  her  with  a  strange,  delicious  alarm. 

She  quickly  withdrew  her  gaze  and  turned  to  the 
little  window  where  Mrs.  Pollock  was  making  out  her 
receipt  for  a  registered  package.  She  felt  that  she 
was  cowardly,  and  the  thought  made  her  furious. 

"Will  it  go  out  today,  Mrs.  Pollock?"  she  asked. 

"'This  afternoon,"  replied  the  postmaster's  wife  and 
assistant.  "Wasn't  that  a  dreadful  wind  last  night, 
Alix?  I  thought  of  you.  You  must  have  been  fright- 
ened." 

"  I  slept  like  a  log  through  all  of  it,"  said  Alix.  "  I 
love  the  wild  night  wind.  It  makes  me  feel  so  nice  and 
comfy  in  bed.  I  was  awfully  tired  last  night.  Thanks." 
Then  turning  to  Courtney :  "  Sorry  you  will  not  go  with 


THE  CHIMNEY  CORNER  141 

me.  I'll  bear  you  in  mind  if  I  ever  take  a  trip  to  the 
Sahara.  Good-bye." 

"Will  you  be  at  home  tonight?"  he  asked,  holding 
the  door  open  for  her  to  pass  through. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied  composedly. 

"  I  mean, — to  me?  " 

"  If  you  care  to  come,"  she  said. 

He  did  not  accompany  her  to  the  car.  The  big 
grey-brown  dog  with  his  paws  on  the  back  of  the  front 
seat,  was  eagerly  watching  her  approach. 

She  wore  a  long  mole-skin  coat  and  a  smart  little  red 
turban.  She  had  never  looked  so  alluring  to  the  young 
man  who  waited  in  the  open  door  until  the  car  started 
away. 

"  Close  the  door,  please,"  called  out  Mrs.  Pollock 
"  This  isn't  July,  you  know." 

"  So  she  slept  like  a  log,  did  she?  "  muttered  Court- 
ney as  he  turned  away  from  his  lockbox  with  a  letter. 
"  Well,  that's  more  than  I  did." 

He  glanced  hurriedly  through  the  letter,  crumpled 
it  up  in  his  hand,  and  went  jauntily  up  the  street  until 
he  came  to  Hatch's  Photograph  Gallery.  Entering, 
he  gave  the  proprietor  a  hearty  "  good  morning,"  and 
then  drew  a  chair  up  before  the  low  "  sheet-iron  stove  " 
which  heated  the  reception-room.  Hatch  was  "  print- 
ing "  behind  a  partition,  and  their  conversation  was 
carried  on  at  long  range  over  the  top.  Presently  the 
visitor  drew  the  crumpled  letter  from  his  pocket,  tore 
it  into  tiny  pieces  and  cast  it  into  the  fire. 

"  Well,  so  long,  Hatch.  I'm  off  for  a  stroll  in  your; 
crisp  October  air." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THANE   VISITS   TWO   HOUSES 

ALL  day  long  Alix  was  troubled.  She  could  not 
free  her  thoughts  of  that  searing  look  or  the 
spell  it  had  cast  over  her  during  the  brief  in- 
stant of  contact.  She  was  haunted  by  it.  At  times  she 
gave  herself  up  to  a  reckless,  unmaidenly  rejoicing  in 
the  thrill  it  had  given  her;  at  such  times  she  flushed 
to  the  roots  of  her  hair  despite  the  chill  of  ecstasy  that 
swept  over  her.  But  far  more  often  she  found  herself 
resenting  the  liberty  his  eyes  had  taken, — a  mental 
rather  than  a  physical  liberty.  She  was  resolved  that 
it  should  not  happen  again. 

She  had  posted  a  note  to  David  Strong  that  morn- 
ing. Before  the  car  had  covered  the  first  mile  on  its 
way  to  town,  she  was  wishing  she  had  not  dropped  it 
into  the  slot  at  the  postoffice.  Only  the  fear  of  appear- 
ing ridiculous  to  Mrs.  Pollock  kept  her  from  turning 
back  to  reclaim  it.  She  could  not  explain  this  sudden, 
almost  frantic  impulse, — she  did  not  attempt  to  ac- 
count for  it.  Somehow  she  sensed  that  it  had  to  do 
with  the  look  in  Thane's  eyes, — but  it  was  all  so  vague 
and  intangible  that  even  the  suggestion  did  not  take 
the  form  of  thought. 

In  this  curt  little  note  she  had  said: 

DEAR  DAVID: 

I  hereby  acknowledge  receipt  of  your  cheque  No.  372  for 
two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  but  as  I  have  tried  to  make 
142 


THANE  VISITS  TWO  HOUSES          143 

you  understand  before,  it  is  not  only  an  unnecessary  but  a 
most  unwelcome  bit  of  paper.  You  are  perfectly  well  aware 
that  my  grandfather's  estate  has  been  settled  and,  as  I  have 
informed  you  time  and  again,  your  obligation  to  him  np 
longer  exists.  You  may  have  owed  something  to  him,  but 
you  owe  nothing  to  me.  If  I  were  to  follow  my  impulse 
I  should  tear  up  this  cheque  of  yours.  It  would  be  useless 
to  return  it  to  you,  for  you  would  only  send  it  back  to  me, 
as  you  did  with  the  first  two  cheques  that  came  last  winter. 
I  want  you  to  understand  that  I  do  not  accept  this  money  as 
my  own.  If  it  is  any  satisfaction  to  you  to  know  that  I 
give  it  away, — no  matter  how, — you  are  welcome  to  all 
the  consolation  you  may  get  out  of  it. 

Yours  truly, 

ALIX  CROWN. 

P.S. — I  have  advised  your  mother  to  go  to  Philadelphia 
whenever  you  are  ready  for  her  to  come.  A. 

P.S.S. — Under  separate  cover  by  registered  post  I  am 
also  returning  to  you  the  bracelet  you  sent  me  from  Paris. 
I  think  I  wrote  you  a  long  time  ago  how  much  I  admired 
it.  A. 

Meanwhile,  Thane  was  making  the  best  of  a  rather 
empty  morning1.  He  put  off  finishing  a  letter  to  his 
mother,  who  had  returned  to  New  York  and  was  so 
busy  with  dressmakers  that  twice  she  had  employed  the 
telegraph  in  promising  to  "  write  soon," — a  letter  in 
which  he  already  had  written,  among  other  rapturous 
passages :  "  She  is  positively  ravishing,  mater  dear.  I 
am  simply  mad  about  her,  and  I  know  you  will  be  too." 
He  was  determined  that  the  day  should  not  be  a  total 
loss ;  he  would  turn  at  least  a  portion  of  it  to  profit. 

First  of  all,  he  visited  Alaska  Spigg  at  the  log-hut 
village  library.  Miss  Spigg  was  very  proud  of  her 
geraniums.  No  one  else  in  Windomville, — or  in  the 


144  (QUILL'S  WINDOW 

world,  for  that  matter,  if  one  were  to  recall  Mr.  Pol- 
lock's article  in  the  Stun, — no  one  else  cultivated  such 
geraniums  as  those  to  be  seen  in  the  pots  that  crowned 
the  superinforced  windowsills  at  the  library. 

There  was  no  such  thing  as  a  florist's  shop  in  Win- 
domville.  Roses  or  orchids  or  even  carnations  were 
unobtainable.  A  potted  geranium  plant,  in  full  bloom, 
—one  of  Alaska  Spigg's  tall,  sturdy,  jealously  guarded 
treasures  was  the  best  he  could  do  in  the  way  of  a  floral 
offering  to  his  goddess.  So  he  set  about  the  supposedly 
hopeless  task  of  inducing  Alaska  to  part  with  one  of 
her  plants.  Half  an  hour  after  entering  the  library 
he  departed  with  a  balloon  shaped  object  in  his  arms. 
He  was  not  too  proud  to  be  seen  shuffling  up  the  lane 
with  his  prize,  a  huge  thing  loosely  done  up  in  news- 
papers,— leaving  behind  him  a  completely  dazzled 
Alaska  who  went  about  the  place  aimlessly  folding  and 
unfolding  a  brand  new  two-dollar  bill. 

"  I  don't  know  what  come  over  me,"  explained  Alaska 
later  on  to  a  couple  of  astonished  ladies  who  had  hur- 
ried in  to  see  if  the  report  was  true  that  she  had  parted 
with  one  of  her  geraniums.  "  For  the  life  of  me,  I 
don't  know  how  I  happened  to  do  it.  'Specially  the 
one  I  was  proudest  of,  too.  I've  always  said  I'd  never 
sell  one  of  my  plants, — not  even  if  the  President  of  the 
United  States  was  to  come  in  and  offer  me  untold  mil- 
lions for  it, — and  here  I — I — why,  Martha,  I  almost 
gave  it  to  him,  honest  I  did.  I  just  couldn't  seem  to 
help  letting  him  have  it.  Of  course,  I  don't  mind  its 
loss  half  so  much,  knowing  that  it  is  going  to  Alix.  She 
loves  flowers.  She'll  take  the  best  of  care  of  it.  But 
how  I  ever  came  to —  " 

"Don't  cry,  Alaska,"  broke  in  one  of  her  callers 


THANE  VISITS  TWO  HOUSES  145 

cheerfully.     "  You'll  be  getting  it  back  before  long." 

"  Never,"  lamented  Alaska.  "  What  makes  you  think 
I'll  get  it  back?"  she  went  on,  suddenly  peeping  over 
the  edge  of  her  handkerchief. 

"  Why,  as  soon  as  Alix  knows  how  miserable  you  are 
about  parting  with  that  geranium,  she'll  send  it  back  to 
you,  —  and  you'll  be  two  dollars  ahead.  Don't  be  silly." 

Repairing  at  once  to  the  house  on  the  knoll,  Court- 
ney took  counsel  with  Mrs.  Strong.  The  housekeeper 
could  hardly  believe  her  eyes  when  she  saw  the  geranium. 

"  Well,  all  I've  got  to  say  is  that  you  must  have 
stolen  it,"  she  exclaimed.  "  There  couldn't  be  any  other 
way  to  get  one  of  those  plants  away  from  Alaska 


"  Be  that  as  it  may,"  said  he  airily,  "  what  we've 
got  to  decide  now,  Mrs.  Strong,  is  just  where  to  put  it. 
I  want  to  surprise  Miss  Crown  when  she  returns  from 
town." 

"  She'll  be  surprised  all  right  when  she  finds  out  you 
got  one  of  Alaska  Spigg's  pet  geraniums.  I  remember 
Alaska  saying  not  so  long  ago  that  she  wouldn't  sell 
one  of  those  plants  for  a  million  dollars.  Now  let  me 
see.  It  ought  to  go  where  it  will  get  as  much  sun  as 
possible.  That  would  be  in  the  dining-room.  I  guess 
we'd  better—  " 

"  I  really  think  it  would  look  better  right  here  in 
this  room,  Mrs.  Strong,"  said  he,  indicating  one  of  the 
windows  looking  out  over  the  terrace.  There  was  little 
or  no  sunlight  there,  but  he  did  not  mind  that.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  he  wasn't  at  all  concerned  about  the 
future  welfare  of  the  plant.  It  meant  no  more  to  him 
than  the  customary  bunch  of  violets  that  one  sends, 
"  sight  unseen,"  to  the  lady  of  the  hour. 


146  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"  Well,  you're  the  boss.  It's  your  plant,"  said  Mrs. 
Strong  briskly.  "  Alaska  Spigg  will  go  into  hysterics 
when  she  hears  where  you've  put  it, — but  that's  of  no 
consequence." 

And  so  the  plant  was  placed  on  a  small  table  in  the 
window  of  the  long  living-roorn. 

"  Link  Pollock  told  us  last  night  that  you  may  go 
to  Philadelphia  to  join  your  son,  Mrs.  Strong,"  said 
he,  as  he  watched  her  arranging  the  window  curtains. 

Mrs.  Strong  flushed.  "It  did  not  occur  to  me  to 
ask  Mr.  Pollock  not  to  repeat  what  I  said  to  him  in 
confidence,"  she  said,  with  dignity. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  mentioned  it.  I  am  sure  Pollock  didn't 
understand  it  was — er — a  secret  or  anything  like  that, 
Mrs.  Strong." 

"  It  isn't  a  secret.  I  have  talked  it  over  with  Miss 
Alix,  and  I  have  practically  decided  to  remain  with  her. 
You  may  tell  that  to  Mr.  Pollock  if  you  like." 

"  She  would  miss  you  terribly,"  said  he,  allowing  the 
sarcasm  to  pass  over  his  head.  "  Your  son  and  Miss 
Crown  were  boy  and  girl  sweethearts,  I  hear, — oh, 
please  don't  be  offended.  Those  things  happen,  you 
know, — and  pass  off  like  all  of  the  children's  diseases. 
Like  the  measles,  or  mumps  or  chicken  pox.  Every  boy 
and  girl  has  to  go  through  that  stage,  you  know.  I 
remember  being  horribly  in  love  with  a  girl  in  our  block 
when  I  was  fifteen, — and  she  with  me.  But,  for  the  life 
of  me,  I  can't  remember  her  name  now.  I  mean  her 
married  name,"  he  explained,  with  his  whimsical  grin. 

"  I  don't  believe  Alix  and  David  ever  were  in  love 
with  each  other,"  said  she  stiffly.  "They  were  won- 
derful friends, — playmates  and  all  that, — but," —  here 
she  flushed  again,  "  you  see,  my  boy  was  only  the  black- 


THANE  VISITS  TWO  HOUSES          147 

smith's  son.  People  may  have  told  you  that,  Mr. 
Thane." 

"  What  has  that  to  do  with  it?  "  he  cried  instantly. 
"  Wasn't  Miss  Crown's  father  the  son  of  a  black- 
smith?" 

He  caught  the  passing  flicker  of  appreciation  in  her 
eyes  as  she  lifted  her  head. 

"  True,"  she  said  quietly.  "  And  a  fine  young  man, 
they  tell  me, — those  who  knew  him.  His  father  was  not 
like  my  David's  father,  however.  He  was  a  drunkard. 
He  beat  his  wife,  they  say." 

"  Abraham  Lincoln  was  a  rail  splitter.  James  A. 
Garfield  drove  a  canal  boat.  Does  anybody  think  the 
worse  of  them  for  that?  Your  son,  Mrs.  Strong, — I  am 
told  by  all  who  know  him, — will  be  a  great  surgeon,  a 
great  man.  You  must  not  forget  that  people  will  speak 
of  his  son  as  the  son  of  Dr.  David  Strong,  the  famous 
surgeon." 

Her  face  glowed  with  pleasure.  Mother  love  and 
mother  pride  kindled  in  her  dark  eyes.  He  caught  him- 
self wondering  if  young  David  Strong  was  like  this 
tall,  grey-haired  woman  with  the  steady  gaze  and  quiet 
smile. 

"  I  am  sure  David  will  succeed,"  she  said  warmly. 
"  He  always  was  a  determined  boy.  Mr.  Windom  was 
very  fond  of  him.  He  took  a  great  interest  in  him." 
A  self-conscious,  apologetic  smile  succeeded  the  proud 
one.  "  I  suppose  you  would  call  Alix  and  David  boy 
and  girl  sweethearts.  As  you  say,  boys  and  girls  just 
simply  can't  help  having  such  ailments.  It's  like  an 
epidemic.  Even  the  strongest  catch  it  and, — get  over 
it  without  calling  in  the  doctor." 

He  grinned.     "  It  is  a  most  amiable  disease.     The 


148  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

only  medicine  necessary  is  soda  water  and  ice  cream, 
with  a  few  pills  in  the  shape  of  chocolate  caramels  or 
marshmallows,  taken  at  all  hours  and  in  large  doses." 

Mrs.  Strong's  eyes  softened  as  she  looked  out  of  the 
window.  A  faraway,  wistful  expression  lurked  in  them. 

"Those  were  wonderful  days,  Mr.  Thane, — when 
those  two  children  were  growing  up."  She  sighed. 
"  David  is  four  years  older  than  Alix,  but  ever  since 
she  was  a  tiny  child  she  seemed  older  than  he  was.  I 
guess  it  was  because  he  was  so  big  and  strong  that  he 
just  couldn't  bear  to  lord  it  over  her  like  most  boys 
do  with  girls.  He  was  kind  of  like  a  big  shepherd  dog. 
Always  watching  over  her  and — dear  me,  I'll  never  for- 
get the  time  they  got  lost  in  the  woods  up  above  here. 
That  was  when  she  was  about  seven.  They  were  not 
found  till  next  morning.  We  had  everybody  for  miles 
around  beating  the  woods  for  them  all  night  long. 
Well,  sir,  that  boy  had  taken  off  his  coat  and  put  it  on 
her,  and  his  stockings  too,  and  he  had  even  removed  his 
shirt  to  make  a  sort  of  muffler  to  wrap  around  her 
throat,  because  she  always  had  sore  throats  and  croup 
when  she  was  a  child.  And  when  the  men  found  them, 
he  was  sitting  up  against  a  tree  sound  asleep,  almost 
frozen  stiff,  with  her  in  his  lap  and  his  cold  little  arms 
around  her.  It  was  late  in  September  and  the  nights 
were  cold.  Then  there  was  the  time  when  she  fell  off 
the  side  of  the  ferry  boat  and  he  jumped  in  after  her, — 
with  his  best  suit  on,  the  little  rascal, — and  held  her 
up  till  Josh  Wilson  stopped  the  ferry  and  old  Mr. 
White,  who  was  crossing  with  his  team,  managed  to 
throw  a  buggy  rein  out  to  him  and  pull  him  in.  The 
water  out  there  in  the  middle  of  the  river  is  ten  feet 


THANE  VISITS  TWO  HOUSES          149 

ideep,  Mr.  Thane,  and  David  was  just  learning  how  to 
swim.  And  they  both  had  croup  that  night.  My  good- 
ness, I  thought  that  boy  was  going  to  die.  But,  my 
land,  that  seems  ages  ago.  Here  they  are,  a  grown 
man  and  woman,  and  probably  don't  even  remember 
those  happy  days." 

"  That's  the  horrible  penalty  one  pays  for  growing 
up,  Mrs.  Strong." 

"  I  guess  you're  right.  Of  course,  they  write  to  each 
other  every  once  in  a  while, — but  nothing  is  like  it  used 
to  be.  Alix  had  a  letter  from  Davy  only  a  day  or  so 
ago.  You'd  think  she  might  occasionally  tell  me  some 
of  the  things  he  writes  about, — but  she  never  does.  She 
never  opens  her  mouth  about  them.  And  he  never  writes 
anything  to  me  about  what  she  writes  to  him.  I  suppose 
that's  the  way  of  the  world.  When  they  were  little 
they  used  to  come  to  me  with  everything. 

"  You  see,  I  came  here  to  keep  house  for  Mr.  Win- 
idom  soon  after  old  Maria  Bliss  died.  My  husband  died 
when  David  was  six  years  old.  Alix  was  only  four 
years  old  when  I  came  here,  Mr.  Thane.  This  house 
was  new, — just  finished.  I'll  never  forget  the  rage  Mr. 
Wmdom  got  into  when  he  found  out  that  Alix  and 
David  were  going  up  to  the  old  farmhouse  where  her 
mother  died  and  were  using  one  of  the  upstairs  rooms 
as  a  *  den.'  They  got  in  through  a  cellar  window,  it 
seems.  They  were  each  writing  a  novel,  and  that  was 
where  they  worked  and  read  what  they  had  written  to 
each  other.  That  lasted  only  about  six  weeks  or  so 
before  Mr.  Windom  found  out  about  it.  He  was  ter- 
rible. You  see,  without  knowing  it,  they  had  picked 
out  the  room  that  was  most  sacred  to  him.  It  was  his 


150  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

«4 

wife's  own  room, — where  she  died  and  where  Alix's 
mother  was  born  and  where  she  also  died, — and  where 
our  Alix  was  born. 

"  Of  course,  at  that  time  nobody  knew  about  Edward 
Crown.  We  all  thought  he  was  alive  somewhere.  The 
children  never  went  there  again.  No,  sirree!  They 
both  ought  to  have  known  better  than  to  go  at  all. 
Alix  was  fifteen  years  old  when  that  happened,  and 
Davy  was  going  to  college  in  the  winter  time." 

"  Did  your  son  live  here  in  the  house  with  you  all 
those  years?"  inquired  Courtney. 

"  We  lived  in  the  first  cottage  down  the  lane  from 
here.  Mr.  Windom  was  a  very  thoughtful  man.  He 
did  not  want  me  to  live  here  in  the  house  with  him 
because  of  what  people  might  say.  You  see,  I  was  a 
young  woman  then,  and — well,  people  are  not  always 
kind,  you  know."  She  spoke  simply  and  without  the 
slightest  embarrassment. 

He  looked  hard  at  her  half-averted  face  and  was 
suddenly  confronted  by  the  realization  that  this  grey, 
motherly  woman  must  have  been  young  once,  like  Alix, 
and  pretty.  As  it  is  with  the  young,  he  could  not  think 
of  her  except  as  old.  He  had  always  thought  of  his 
mother  as  old;  it  was  impossible  to  think  of  her  as 
having  once  been  young  and  gay  like  the  girls  he  knew. 
Yes,  Mrs.  Strong  must  have  been  young  and  pretty 
and  desirable, — somebody's  sweetheart,  somebody's 
*'  girl."  The  thought  astonished  him. 

II 

Shortly  afterward  he  took  his  departure.  There  was 
a  frown  of  annoyance  on  his  brow  as  he  strode  briskly 
up  the  lane  in  the  direction  of  the  crossroads,  half  a 


THANE  VISITS  TWO  HOUSES  151 

mile  or  more  above  the  village.  As  usual,  he  thought 
aloud. 

"There's  no  way  of  finding  out  just  how  things 
stand  between  them.  The  old  lady  doesn't  know  any- 
thing, that's  a  cinch.  If  she  really  knew  she  would 
have  let  it  out  to  me.  I'll  never  get  a  better  chance  to 
pump  her  than  I  had  today.  She  doesn't  know.  You 
can  see  she  hopes  her  son  will  get  her.  That's  as  plain 
as  the  nose  on  your  face.  But  she  doesn't  know  any- 
thing. Is  that  a  good  sign  or  a  bad  one?  I  wish  I 
knew.  Alix  isn't  the  sort  to  forget.  Maybe  Strong  has 
gotten  over  it  and  not  she.  It's  darned  aggravating, 
that's  what  it  is.  There  must  be  some  good  reason  why 
she's  never  married.  I  wonder  if  she's  still  keen  about 
him.  This  talk  of  Charlie  Webster's  may  be  plain  bunk. 
If  she  hates  him, — why?  That's  the  question.  Why 
does  she  hate  him?  There  must  be  some  reason  beside 
that  debt  he  owed  to  old  Windom.  Gad,  I  wish  I  could 
have  seen  that  letter  he  wrote  her  when  he  sent  the 
cheque.  Well,  anyhow,  it's  up  to  me  to  get  busy. 
That's  sure ! " 

His  walk  took  him  past  the  Windomville  Cemetery 
and  up  the  gravel  turnpike  leading  to  the  city.  Alix 
had  traversed  this  road  an  hour  or  so  earlier.  Swing- 
ing around  a  bend  in  the  highway,  he  came  in  view  of 
the  abandoned  farmhouse  half  a  mile  ahead. 

It  was  a  familiar  object  by  this  time,  for  he  had 
passed  it  many  times,  not  only  on  his  solitary  walks 
but  on  several  occasions  with  Alix.  The  desolate  house, 
with  its  weed-grown  yard,  its  dilapidated  paling  fence, 
its  atmosphere  of  decay,  had  always  possessed  a  certain 
fascination  for  him.  He  secretly  confessed  to  a  queer 
little  sensation  as  of  awe  whenever  he  looked  upon  the 


152  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

empty,  green-shuttered  house.  It  suggested  death. 
More  than  once  he  had  paused  in  the  road  below  the 
rickety  gate  to  gaze  intently  at  the  closed  windows,  or 
to  scrutinize  the  tangled  mass  of  weeds  and  rose  bushes 
that  almost  hid  the  porch  and  its  approach  from  view. 
He  was  never  without  the  strange  feeling  that  the  body 
of  Edward  Crown  might  still  be  lying  at  the  foot  of 
the  hidden  steps. 

Now  he  approached  the  place  with  a  new  and  deeper 
interest.  Strangely  enough,  it  had  been  shorn  within 
the  hour  of  much  that  was  grim  and  terrifying.  It  was 
no  longer  a  house  to  inspire  dread  and  uneasiness.  Two 
young  and  venturesome  spirits  had  invaded  its  silent 
precincts,  there  to  dream  in  safety  and  seclusion,  un- 
haunted  by  its  spectres,  undisturbed  by  its  secret.  In 
one  of  its  darkened  rooms  they  had  set  up  a  "  work- 
shop," a  "  playhouse."  A  glaze  came  over  his  eyes  as 
he  wondered  what  had  transpired  in  that  room  during 
the  surreptitious  six  weeks'  tenancy.  Had  David 
Strong  kissed  her?  Had  she  kissed  David  Strong? 
Were  promises  made  and  futures  planned?  His  throat 
was  tight  with  the  swell  of  jealousy. 

He  stopped  at  the  gate.  After  a  moment's  hesitation 
he  lifted  the  rusty  latch  and  jerked  the  gate  open  far 
enough  to  allow  him  to  squeeze  through.  Then  he 
paused  to  sweep  the  landscape  with  an  inquiring  eye. 
Far  up  the  pike  a  load  of  fodder  moved  slowly.  There 
were  cattle  in  the  pasture  near  at  hand,  but  no  human 
being  to  observe  his  actions.  In  a  distant  upland  field 
men  were  moving  among  a  multitude  of  corn-shocks, 
trailing  the  horses  and  wagons  that  belonged  to  Alix 
Crown.  Crows  cawed  in  the  trees  on  the  eastern  edge 
of  the  strip  of  meadowland,  and  on  high  soared  two 


THANE  VISITS  TWO  HOUSES          153 

or  three  big  birds, — hawks  or  buzzards,  he  knew  not 
which, — circling  slowly  in  the  arc  of  the  steel  blue  sky. 

Confident  that  he  was  unobserved,  he  made  his  way 
up  the  half-buried  walk  to  the  porch,  and,  deliberately 
mounting  the  steps,  tried  the  door-knob.  As  he  ex- 
pected, the  door  was  locked.  After  another  searching 
look  in  all  directions,  he  started  off  through  the  tangle 
of  weeds  and  burdocks  to  circle  the  house.  He  passed 
through  what  once  must  have  been  the  tennis-court  of 
Alix  the  First, — now  a  weedy  patch, — and  came  to  the 
back  door.  Below  him  lay  the  deserted  stables  and 
outbuildings,  facing  the  barnyard  in  which  a  few  worn- 
out  farm  implements  were  to  be  seen,  weather-beaten 
skeletons  of  a  past  generation. 

There  was  no  sign  of  human  life.  A  lean  and  thread- 
bare scarecrow  flapped  his  ragged  coat-sleeves  in  the 
wind  that  swept  across  the  barren  garden  patch  farther 
up  the  slope, — this  was  the  nearest  approach  to  human 
life  that  came  within  the  range  of  vision.  And  as  if 
to  invite  jovial  companionship,  this  pathetic  gentleman 
wore  his  ancient  straw  hat  cocked  rakishly  over  what 
would  have  been  his  left  ear  if  he  had  had  any 
ears  at  all. 

While  standing  before  the  gate,  Courtney  had  come 
to  a  sudden,  amazing  decision.  He  resolved  to  enter 
and  explore  the  house  if  it  were  possible  to  do  so.  He 
remembered  that  Mrs.  Strong,  in  pursuing  the  subject, 
had  declared  that  Alix  and  David  were  not  even  per- 
mitted to  return  to  the  house  for  their  literary  prod- 
ucts ;  moreover,  she  doubted  very  much  whether  the 
former  had  taken  the  trouble  to  recover  them  after 
she  became  sole  possessor  of  the  property.  If  they 
were  still  there,  with  other  tangible  proofs  of  an  adoles- 


154  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

cent  intimacy,  he  saw  no  reason  why  he  should  not  lay 
eyes> — or  even  hands, — upon  them.  He  saw  no  wrong 
in  the  undertaking.  It  was  a  justifiable  adventure, 
viewed  from  the  standpoint  of  a  lover  whose  claim  was 
in  doubt. 

The  back  door  was  locked  and  the  window  shutters 
securely  nailed.  Entrance  to  the  cellar  was  barred  by 
heavy  scantlings  fastened  across  the  sloping  hatch.  In 
the  barnyard  he  found  a  stout  single-tree.  With  this 
he  succeeded  in  prying  off  the  two  scantlings.  The 
staple  holding  the  padlock  was  easily  withdrawn  from 
one  of  the  rotten  boards. 

Descending  the  steps,  he  found  himself  in  the  small, 
musty  cellar.  The  vault-like  room  was  empty  save  for 
a  couple  of  barrels  standing  in  a  corner  and  a  small 
pile  of  firewood  under  the  stairs  that  led  to  regions 
above.  Selecting  a  faggot  of  kindling-wood  from  this 
pile,  he  fashioned  a  torch  by  whittling  the  end  into  a 
confusion  of  partially  detached  slivers.  This  he  lighted 
with  a  match,  and  then  mounted  the  stairs. 

The  door  at  the  head  opened  at  the  lifting  of  an 
old-fashioned  latch.  A  thick  screen  of  cobwebs  almost 
closed  the  upper  half  of  the  aperture.  He  burnt  it 
away  with  the  naming  torch,  and  passed  on  into  the 
kitchen.  He  was  grateful  for  the  snapping  fire  of  the 
faggot,  for  otherwise  the  silence  of  the  grave  would  have 
fallen  about  him  as  he  stood  motionless  for  a  moment 
peering  about  the  empty  room.  No  light  penetrated 
from  the  outside.  The  air  was  dead.  Spiders  had 
clothed  the  corners  and  the  ceiling  with  their  silk,  over 
which  the  dust  of  years  lay  thick  and  ugly.  He  felt, 
with  a  queer  little  shiver,  that  the  eyes  of  a  thousand 


THANE  VISITS  TWO  HOUSES          155 

spiders  peered  gloatingly  down  upon  him  from  the 
murky  fastnesses. 

He  hurried  on.  The  rooms  on  the  lower  floor  had 
been  stripped  of  all  signs  of  habitation.  His  footsteps 
resounded  throughout  the  house.  Boards  creaked 
under  his  tread.  Without  actually  realizing  what  he 
was  doing,  he  began  to  tiptoe  toward  the  stairway  that 
led  to  the  upper  floor.  He  laughed  at  himself  for  this 
precaution,  and  yet  could  not  rid  himself  of  the  feeling 
that  some  one  was  listening,  that  the  stealth  of  the 
midnight  burglar  was  necessary.  The  stairs  groaned 
under  his  weight,  the  dust-covered  banister  cracked 
loudly  when  he  laid  his  hand  upon  it.  He  had  the 
strange  notion  that  they  were  sounding  the  alarm  to 
some  guardian  occupant  of  the  premises, — to  a  slum- 
bering ghost  perhaps. 

He  came  at  last  to  the  room  where  Alix  and  David 
had  played  at  book-writing.  In  the  centre  stood  a 
kitchen  table,  on  either  side  of  which  was  a  rudely 
constructed  bench, — evidently  the  handiwork  of  David 
Strong,  Two  strips  of  rag  carpet  served  as  a  rug. 
At  each  end  of  the  table  was  a  candlestick  containing 
a  half-used  tallow  candle.  There  was  a  single  ink  pot, 
but  there  were  two  penholders  beside  it,  and  a  couple  of 
blue  blotters.  Nearby  were  two  ancient  but  substantial 
rocking  chairs, — singularly  out  of  place, — no  doubt 
discarded  survivors  of  long-distant  days  of  comfort, 
rescued  from  an  attic  storeroom  by  the  young  tres- 
passers. A  scrap  basket,  half-full  of  torn  and  crum- 
pled sheets  of  paper,  stood  conveniently  near  the  table. 

He  lighted  both  of  the  candles  and  extinguished  the 
flickering  faggot.  The  steady  glow  of  the  candlelight 


156  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

filled  the  room.  On  the  mantel  above  the  blackened 
fireplace  he  saw  a  small,  white  framed  mirror.  A  for- 
gotten pair  of  gloves  lay  beside  it,  and  two  or  three 
hairpins.  He  picked  up  the  gloves,  slapped  them 
against  his  leg  to  rid  them  of  accumulated  dust,  and 
then  stuck  them  into  his  coat  pocket.  They  were  long 
and  slim  and  soiled  by  wear. 

A  closet  door,  standing  partly  open,  drew  him  across 
the  room.  Hanging  from  one  of  the  hooks  was  a  moth- 
eaten  vicuna  smoking  jacket  of  blue.  Beside  this  gar- 
ment hung  a  girl's  bright  red  blazer,  with  black  collar; 
protecting,  business-like  paper  cuffs  were  still  attached. 
In  the  corner  of  the  closet  reposed  a  broom,  a  mop  and 
an  empty  pail. 

He  smiled  at  the  thought  of  young  Alix  sweeping 
and  scrubbing  the  floor  of  this  sequestered  retreat. 

Returning  to  the  table,  he  pulled  out  the  drawer, 
and  there,  side  by  side,  lay  two  neat  but  far  from  volum- 
inous manuscripts,  each  weighted  down  by  the  unused 
portion  of  the  scratch  pad  from  which  the  written 
sheets  had  been  torn.  One  was  in  the  bold,  superior 
scrawl  of  a  boy,  the  other  ineffably  feminine  in  its  pains- 
taking regard  for  legibility  and  tidiness. 

Ill 

These  literary  efforts  had  been  cut  off  short  in  their 
infancy.  David's  vigorously  written  pages,  marred  by 
frequent  scratchings  and  erasures,  far  outnumbered 
Alix's.  He  was  in  the  midst  of  Chapter  Three  of  a 
novel  entitled  "  The  Phantom  Singer  "  when  the  calam- 
itous interruption  came.  Alix's  work  had  progressed 
to  Chapter  Five.  Inspection  revealed  the  further  fact 
that  she  was  thrifty.  She  had  written  on  both  sides 


THANE  VISITS  TWO  HOUSES  157 

of  the  sheets,  while  the  prodigal  David  confined  him- 
self to  the  inexorable  "  one  side  of  the  sheet  only." 
There  were  unmistakable  indications  of  editorial  arro- 
gance on  the  part  of  Alix  on  every  sheet  of  David's 
manuscript.  Her  small,  precise  hand  was  to  be  seen 
here,  there  and  everywhere, — sometimes  in  the  substi- 
tution of  a  single  word,  often  in  the  rewriting  of  an 
entire  sentence.  But  nowhere  on  her  own  pages  was  to 
be  found  so  much  as  a  scratch  by  the  clumsy  hand  of 
her  fellow  novelist. 

Her  story  bore  the  fetching  title :  "  Lady  Mor- 
daunt's  Lover." 

Courtney  read  the  first  page  of  her  script.  A  sudden 
wave  of  remorse,  even  guilt,  swept  through  him.  Back 
in  his  mind  he  pictured  her  bending  studiously,  earn- 
estly to  the  task,  her  heart  in  every  line  she  was  pen- 
ning, her  dear  little  brow  wrinkled  in  thought.  He 
could  almost  visualize  the  dark,  wavy  hair,  the  soft 
white  neck, — as  if  he  were  standing  behind  looking 
down  upon  her  as  she  struggled  with  an  obstinate 
muse, — and  the  quick,  gentle  rise  and  fall  of  her  young 
breast.  He  could  see  her  lift  her  head  now  and  then  to 
stare  dreamily  at  the  ceiling,  searching  there  for  in- 
spiration. He  could  see  the  cramped,  tense  fingers  that 
gripped  the  pen  as  she  wrote  these  precious  lines, — with 
David  scratching  away  laboriously  at  the  opposite  end 
of  the  table.  A  strange  tenderness  entered  his  soul. 
Something  akin  to  reverence  took  possession  of  him. 
He  had  invaded  sanctuary. 

Slowly,  almost  tenderly,  he  replaced  the  manuscript 
in  the  drawer  beside  its  bristling  mate.  Then  he  reso- 
lutely closed  the  drawer,  blew  out  the  candles,  and 
strode  swiftly  from  the  room  and  down  the  creaking 


158  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

stairs,  lighting  the  way  with  matches.  Even  as  he 
convicted  himself  of  wrong,  he  justified  himself  as  right. 
The  virtuous  renunciation  balanced,  aye,  overbalanced, 
— the  account  with  cupidity.  He  was  saying  to  him- 
self as  he  made  his  way  down  to  the  cellar: 

"It  would  be  downright  rotten  to  take  that  story 
of  hers,  even  as  a  joke, — and  I  came  mighty  near  to 
doing  it.  Thank  the  Lord,  I  didn't.  Of  course,  it's 
piffle, — both  of  'em, — but  I  just  couldn't  take  hers 
away  for  no  other  reason  than  to  get  a  good  laugh  out 
of  it.  Anyhow,  my  conscience  is  clear.  I  put  it  back 
where  she  left  it, — and  that's  the  end  of  it  so  far  as 
I'm  concerned.  Damn  these  cobwebs!  Good  Lord,  I 
wonder  if  any  of  these  spiders  are  poisonous ! " 

Brushing  the  cobwebs  from  his  face  as  he  ran,  he 
hurried  across  the  cellar  and  bolted  up  the  steps,  out 
into  the  brilliant  sunlight.  He  made  frantic  efforts  to 
remove  the  disgusting  webs  from  his  garments,  his  eyes 
darting  everywhere  in  search  of  the  evil  insects. 

Presently  he  set  to  work  replacing  the  staple  and 
padlock,  inserting  the  nails  in  the  holes  they  had  left 
in  the  rotting  board.  He  did  his  best  to  fasten  the 
scantlings  down,  making  a  sorry  job  of  it,  and  then, 
as  he  prepared  to  leave  the  premises,  he  was  suddenly 
seized  by  the  uncanny  feeling  that  some  one  was  watch- 
ing him.  His  gaze  swept  the  fields,  the  barn  lot,  even 
the  high  grass  that  surrounded  the  house.  There  was 
no  one  in  sight,  and  yet  he  could  feel  the  eyes  of  an 
invisible  watcher. 

Up  in  the  garden  patch,  the  scarecrow  flapped  his 
empty  sleeves.  His  hat  was  still  tilted  jauntily  over 
his  absent  ear.  It  was  ridiculous  to  suppose  that  that 
uncanny  object  could  see, — yet  somehow  it  seemed  to 


THANE  VISITS  TWO  HOUSES  159 

Courtney  that  it  was  looking  at  him,  looking  at  him 
with  malicious,  accusing  eyes. 

Not  once,  but  half  a  dozen  times,  he  turned  in  the 
road  to  glance  over  his  shoulder  at  the  house  he  had 
left  behind.  Always  his  gaze  went  to  the  scarecrow. 
He  shivered  slightly  and  cursed  himself  for  a  fool.  The 
silly  thing  couldn't  be  looking  at  him!  What  non- 
sense !  Still  he  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  when  he  turned 
the  bend  and  was  safely  screened  from  view  by  the  grove 
of  oaks  that  crowned  the  hill  above  the  village. 

Several  automobiles  passed  him  as  he  trudged  along 
the  pike;  an  old  man  afoot  driving  a  little  herd  of 
sheep  gave  him  a  cheery  "  good  morning,"  but  received 
no  response. 

"  I  wish  I  hadn't  gone  into  that  beastly  house,"  he 
was  repeating  to  himself,  a  scowl  in  his  eyes.  "  It  gave 
me  the  '  Willies.'  Jolly  lot  of  satisfaction  I  got  out  of 
it, — I  don't  think.  I  daresay  he  kissed  her  a  good  many 
times  up  there  in  that, —  But,  Lord,  what's  the  sense 
of  worrying  about  something  that  happened  ten  years 
ago?" 

At  the  dinner  table  that  noon,  Charlie  Webster  sud- 
denly inquired: 

"  Well,  what  have  you  been  up  to  this  morning, 
Court?" 

Courtney  started  guiltily  and  shot  a  quick,  inquiring 
look  at  the  speaker.  Satisfied  that  there  was  no  veiled 
significance  in  Charlie's  question,  he  replied: 

"  Took  a  long  ramble  up  the  pike.  The  air  is  like 
wine  today.  I  walked  out  as  far  as  the  old  Windom 
house." 

Charlie  was  interested.  "Is  that  so?  Did  you  see 
[Amos  Vick's  daughter  hanging  around  the  place  ?  " 


160  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"Amos  Vick's — you  mean  Rosabel?  "  He  swallowed 
hard.  "  No,  I  didn't  see  her.  Was  she  over  there?  " 

"  Jim  Bagley  was  in  the  office  half  an  hour  or  so 
ago.  As  he  was  coming  past  the  house  in  his  Ford  he 
saw  her  standing  at  the  front  gate,  so  he  stopped  and 
asked  her  what  she  was  doing  over  on  this  side  of  the 
river.  She'd  been  over  here  spending  the  night  with 
Annie  Jordan, — that's  Phil  Jordan's  girl,  you  know, 
the  township  assessor, — and  went  out  for  a  long  walk 
this  morning.  She  looked  awful  tired  and  sort  of  sickly, 
so  Jim  told  her  to  hop  in  and  he'd  give  her  a  lift  back 
to  Phil's  house.  She  got  in  with  him  and  he  left  her  at 
Phil's." 

"  I  saw  her  walking  down  to  the  ferry  with  Annie 
as  I  was  coming  over  from  the  office  a  little  while  ago," 
said  Doc  Simpson. 

"  Sorry  I  didn't  meet  her,"  said  Courtney.  "  She's 
jolly  good  fun, — and  I  certainly  was  in  need  of  some- 
body to  cheer  me  up  this  morning.  For  the  first  time 
since  I  came  out  here  I  was  homesick  for  New  York, 
— and  mother.  It  must  have  been  our  talk  last  night 
about  the  theatres  and  all  that." 


CHAPTER  XII 

WORDS    AND    LETTERS 

MARY  BLYTHE  and  her  brother  arrived  on 
Tuesday  for  a  two  days'  visit.  Alix  motored 
to  town  and  brought  them  out  in  the  automo- 
bile. She  was  surprised  and  gratified  when  Courtney, 
revoking  his  own  decree,  volunteered  to  go  up  with  her 
to  meet  the  visitors  at  the  railway  station  in  the  city. 
But  when  the  day  came,  he  was  ill  and  unable  to  leave 
his  room.  The  cold,  steady  rains  of  the  past  few  days 
had  brought  on  an  attack  of  pleurisy,  and  the  doctor 
ordered  him  to  remain  in  bed.  He  grumbled  a  great 
deal  over  missing  the  little  dinner  Alix  was  giving  on 
the  first  night  of  their  stay,  and  sent  more  than  one 
lamentation  forth  in  the  shape  of  notes  carried  up  to 
the  house  on  the  knoll  by  Jim  House,  the  venerable 
handy-man  at  Dowd's  Tavern. 

"  I  really  don't  recall  him,"  said  Addison  Blythe, 
frowning  thoughtfully.  "  He  probably  came  to  the 
sector  after  I  left,  Miss  Crown.  I've  got  a  complete 
roster  at  home  of  all  the  fellows  who  served  in  the 
American  Ambulance  up  to  the  time  it  was  taken  over. 
I'd  like  to  meet  him.  I  may  have  run  across  him  any 
number  of  times.  Names  didn't  mean  much,  you  see, 
except  in  cases  where  we  hung  out  together  in  one 
place  for  some  time.  I  would  remember  his  face,  of 
course.  Faces  made  impressions,  and  that's  more  than 
names  did.  Courtney  Thane?  Seems  to  me  I  have  a 
161 


162  QUILL'S  JVINDOW 

vague  recollection  of  that  name.  You  say  he  was 
afterward  flying  with  the  British?  " 

"  Yes.  He  was  wounded  and  gassed  at — at — let  me 
think.  What  was  the  name  of  the  place?  Only  a  few 
weeks  before  the  armistice." 

"  There  was  a  great  deal  doing  a  few  weeks  before 
the  armistice,"  said  Blythe,  smiling.  "You'll  have 
to  be  a  little  more  definite  than  that.  The  air  was  full 
of  British  aeroplanes  from  London  clear  to  Palestine. 
What  is  he  doing  here?  " 

"  Recovering  his  health.  He  has  had  two  attacks  of 
pneumonia,  you  see, — and  a  touch  of  typhoid.  His 
family  originally  lived  in  this  country.  The  old  Thane 
farm  is  almost  directly  across  the  river  from  Windom- 
ville.  Courtney's  father  was  born  there,  but  went  east 
to  live  during  the  first  Cleveland  administration.  He 
had  some  kind  of  a  political  appointment  in  Washing- 
ton, and  married  a  Congressman's  daughter  from 
Georgia,  I  think — anyhow,  it  was  one  of  the  Southern 
states.  He  is  really  quite  fascinating,  Mary.  You 
would  lose  your  heart  to  him,  I  am  sure." 

"And,  pray,  have  you  offered  any  reward  for 
yours?"  inquired  Mary  Blythe,  smiling  as  she  studied 
her  friend's  face  rather  narrowly. 

Alix  met  her  challenging  gaze  steadily.  A  sharper 
observer  than  Mary  Blythe  might  have  detected  the 
faintest  shadow  of  a  cloud  in  the  dark,  honest  eyes. 

"When  I  lose  it,  dear,  I  shall  say  « good  riddance ' 
and  live  happily  ever  after  without  one,"  she  replied 
airily. 

The  next  morning  she  started  off  with  her  guests  for 
a  drive  down  the  river,  to  visit  the  old  fort  and  the 
remains  of  the  Indian  village.  Stopping  at  the  grain 


WORDS  AND  LETTERS  163 

elevator,  she  beckoned  to  Charlie  Webster.  The  fat 
little  manager  came  bustling  out,  beaming  with  pleasure. 

"  How  is  Mr.  Thane  today,  Charlie?  "  she  inquired, 
after  introducing  him  to  the  Blythes. 

Charlie  pursed  his  lips  and  looked  wise.  "  Well,  all 
I  can  say  is,  he's  doing  as  well  as  could  be  expected. 
Temperature  normal,  pulse  fluctuating,  appetite  good, 
respiration  improved  by  a  good  many  cusswords,  mus- 
tard plaster  itching  like  all  get  out, — but  otherwise 
he's  at  the  point  of  death.  I  was  in  to  see  him  after 
breakfast.  He  was  sitting  up  in  bed  and  getting  ready 
to  tell  Doc  Smith  what  he  thinks  of  him  for  ordering 
him  to  stay  in  the  house  till  he  says  he  can  go  out.  He 
is  terribly  upset  because  he  can't  get  up  to  Alix's  to 
see  you,  Mr.  Blythe.  I  never  saw  a  feller  so  cut  up 
about  a  thing  as  he  is." 

"  He  must  not  think  of  coming  out  in  this  kind  of 
weather,"  cried  Alix  firmly.  "  It  would  be—" 

"  Oh,  he's  not  thinking  of  coming  out,"  interrupted 
Charlie  quietly. 

"  I  am  sorry  not  to  have  met  him,"  said  Blythe. 
"  We  probably  have  a  lot  of  mutual  friends." 

A  queer  little  light  flashed  into  Charlie  Webster's 
eyes  and  lingered  for  an  instant. 

*  He's  terribly  anxious  to  meet  you.  It  wouldn't 
surprise  me  at  all  if  he  got  up  today  sometime  and 
in  spite  of  Doc  Smith  hustled  over  to  call  on  you.  I'll 
tell  you  what  we  might  do,  Alix.  If  Mr.  Blythe  isn't 
going  to  be  too  busy,  I  might  take  him  up  to  see  Court, 
— that  is,  when  you  get  back  from  your  drive.  I  know 
he'll  appreciate  it,  and  be  tickled  almost  to  death." 

"  Fine !  "  cried  Blythe.  "  If  you're  sure  he  will  not 
mind,  Mr.  Webster." 


164  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"Why  should  he  mind?  He  says  he's  crazy  to  meet 
you,  and  he's  able  to  see  people — " 

"  But  I've  always  understood  that  talking  was  very 
painful  to  any  one  suffering  from  pleurisy,"  protested 
Alix. 

"  Doesn't  seem  to  hurt  Court  very  much,"  declared 
Charlie.  "  He  nearly  talked  an  arm  off  of  me  and 
Furman  Hatch  this  morning, — and  it  certainly  seemed 
to  be  a  real  pleasure  for  him  to  cuss.  I  really  think 
he'll  get  well  quicker  if  you  drop  in  for  a  chat  with 
him,  Mr.  Blythe." 

"  It  would  be  very  nice,"  said  Alix  warmly,  "  if  you 
could  run  in  for  a  few  minutes — " 

"  Sure  I  will,"  cried  the  young  man.  "  This  after- 
noon, Mr.  Webster, — about  half-past  two?  " 

"  Any  time  suits  me,"  said  the  obliging  Mr.  Webster. 
As  if  struck  by  something  irresistibly  funny,  he  sud- 
denly put  his  hand  to  his  mouth  and  got  very  red  in 
the  face.  After  an  illy-suppressed  snort  or  two,  he 
coughed  violently,  and  then  stammered :  "  Excuse  me. 
I  was  just  thinking  about — er — about  something  funny. 
I'm  always  doing  some  fool  thing  like  that.  This  was 
about  Ed  Jones's  dog, — wouldn't  be  the  least  bit  funny 
to  anybody  but  me,  so  I  won't  tell  you  about  it.  Two- 
thirty  it  is,  then?  I'll  meet  you  up  at  Alix's.  It's  only 
a  step." 

"  Will  you  tell  Mr.  Thane  that  you  are  bringing  Mr. 
Blythe  to  see  him  this  afternoon,  Charlie?  "  said  Alix. 
"  You  said  he  was  threatening  to  disobey  the  doc- 
tor's—" 

"You  leave  it  to  me,  Alix,"  broke  in  Charlie  re- 
assuringly. «  Trust  me  to  see  that  he  don't  escape." 

A  little  before  two-thirty,  tall  Mr.  Blythe,  one  time 


WORDS  AND  LETTERS  165 

Captain  in  the  Field  Artillery,  and  short  Mr.  Web- 
ster wended  their  way  through  the  once  busy  stable- 
yard  in  the  rear  of  Dowd's  Tavern.  Charlie  gave  his 
companion  a  brief  history  of  the  Tavern  and  indicated 
certain  venerable  and  venerated  objects  of  interest, — 
such  as  the  ancient  log  watering-trough  (hewn  in  1832)  ; 
the  rain-barrels,  ash-hoppers  and  fodder  cribs  (dating 
back  to  Civil  War  days),  the  huge  kettle  suspended 
from  a  thick  iron  bar  the  ends  of  which  were  supported 
by  rusty  standards,  where  apple-butter  was  made  at 
one  season  of  the  year,  lye  at  another,  and  where  lard 
was  rendered  at  butchering-time.  He  took  him  into 
the  wagon-shed  and  showed  him  the  rickety  high-wheeled, 
top-heavy  carriage  used  by  the  first  of  the  Dowds  back 
in  the  forties,  now  ready  to  fall  to  pieces  at  the  slightest 
ungentle  shake ;  the  once  gaudy  sleigh  with  its  great 
curved  "  runners  " ;  and  over  in  a  dark  corner  two  long 
barrelled  rifles  with  rusty  locks  and  rotten  stocks, 
that  once  upon  a  time  cracked  the  doom  of  deer  and 
wolf  and  fox,  of  catamount  and  squirrel  and  coon,  of 
wild  turkeys  and  geese  and  ducks — to  say  nothing  of 
an  occasional  horsethief. 

"  They  say  old  man  Dowd  could  shoot  the  eye  out 
of  a  squirrel  three  hundreds  yards  away  with  one  of 
these  rifles,"  announced  Charlie ;  "  and  it  was  no  trick 
at  all  for  him  to  nip  a  wild  turkey's  head  off  at  five 
hundred  yards.  I'll  bet  you  didn't  run  up  against  any 
such  shooting  as  that  over  in  France." 

Blythe  shook  his  head.  "  No  such  rifle  shooting,  I 
grant  you.  But  what  would  you  say  to  a  German 
cannon  twelve  miles  away  landing  ten  shells  in  succes- 
sion on  a  battery  half  as  big  as  this  stable  without 
even  being  able  to  see  the  thing  they  were  shooting  at?  " 


166  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"  I  give  up,"  said  Charlie  gloomily.  "  Old  man  Dowd 
was  some  liar,  but,  my  gosh,  he  couldn't  hold  a — well, 
my  respect  for  the  American  Army  is  greater  than 
it  ever  was,  I'll  say  that,  Captain.  Dan  Dowd  was 
the  rankest  kind  of  an  amateur." 

"  Do  you  mean  as  a  shot, — or  as  a  liar?  "  inquired 
Blythe,  grinning. 

"  Both,"  said  Charlie. 

He  had  a  very  definite  purpose  in  leading  his  guest 
through  the  stable-yard.  By  doing  so  he  avoided  the 
customary  approach  to  the  Tavern,  in  full  view  from 
Courtney's  windows.  They  circled  the  building  and 
arrived  at  the  long,  low  porch  from  the  north.  Here 
thejr  encountered  Furman  Hatch.  Charlie  appeared 
greatly  surprised  to  find  the  photographer  there. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  at  this  time  o'  day,  Tin- 
type? "  he  demanded.  "  Takin'  a  vacation?  " 

"  I  come  over  for  some  prints  I  left  in  my  room  last 
night,"  explained  Mr.  Hatch. 

"We're  going  up  to  call  on  Court,"  said  Charlie. 
"Won't  you  join  us?" 

Hatch  looked  at  his  watch,  frowned  dubiously,  and 
then  said  he  could  spare  a  few  minutes, — and  that  was 
just  what  it  was  understood  in  advance  that  he  was 
to  say ! 

"  He  goes  by  the  name  of  Tintype,"  explained  Mr. 
Webster,  after  the  two  men  had  shaken  hands.  "  Not 
because  he  looks  like  one,  but  because  the  village  idiot's 
name  is  Furman,  and  we  have  to  have  some  way  of 
tellin'  them  apart." 

A  few  minutes  later,  Charlie  knocked  resoundingly 
on  Courtney's  door. 

"Who  is  it?'? 


WORDS  AND  LETTERS  167 

"  It's  me, — Charlie  Webster.  Got  a  nice  surprise 
for  you." 

"  Come  in." 

And  in  strode  Charlie,  followed  by  the  tall  stranger 
and  the  lank  Mr.  Hatch. 

Courtney,  full  dressed, — except  that  he  wore  instead 
of  his  coat  a  thick  blue  bath  gown, — was  sitting  at  a 
table  in  front  of  the  small  wood-fire  stove,  playing 
solitaire.  A  saucer  at  one  corner  of  the  table  served 
as  an  ash  tray.  It  was  half  full  of  cigarette  stubs. 

"Well,  what  the — •"  he  began,  and  then,  catching 
sight  of  the  stranger,  scrambled  up  from  his  chair,  his 
rnouth  still  open. 

"  I  thought  you'd  be  surprised,"  said  Charlie  trium- 
phantly. "This  is  Mr.  Blythe,  Mr.  Thane, — shake 
hands  with  each  other,  comrades.  When  I  told  him 
you  were  so  keen  to  see  him  and  talk  over  old  times, 
he  said  slap-bang  he'd  come  with  me  when  I  offered  to 
bring  him  up." 

"  I  hope  we're  not  intruding,  Mr.  Thane,"  said 
Blythe,  advancing  with  hand  extended.  "  Mr.  Web- 
ster assured  me  you  were  quite  well  enough  to  re- 
ceive— " 

"  I  am  glad  you  came,"  cried  Courtney,  recovering 
from  his  surprise.  "  Awfully  good  of  you.  These 
beastly  lungs  of  mine,  you  know.  The  least  little  flare- 
up  scares  me  stiff.  Still,  I  had  almost  screwed  up  my 
nerve  to  going  out  this  afternoon — " 

"  It  doesn't  pay  to  take  any  risks,"  warned  Blythe, 
as  they  shook  hands. 

The  two  men  looked  each  other  closely,  steadily  in 
the  eye.  Courtney  was  the  first  to  speak  at  the  end 
of  this  mutual  scrutiny. 


168  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"  I  wasn't  quite  sure  whether  I  met  you  over  there, 
Captain  Blythe,"  he  said,  "  but  now  I  know  that  I 
didn't.  I've  been  puzzling  my  brain  for  days  trying 
to  recall  the  name,  or  at  least  your  face.  I  may  be 
wrong,  however.  I  haven't  much  of  a  memory.  I  hope 
you  will  forgive  me  if  we  did  meet  and  I  have  forgotten 
it.  I—" 

"  I  have  no  recollection  of  ever  having  seen  you, 
Mr.  Thane,"  said  Blythe.  "  It  isn't  surprising,  how- 
ever. It — it  was  a  pretty  big  war,  you  know." 

Charlie  Webster  was  slightly  dashed.  If  anything, 
Courtney  Thane  was  more  at  ease,  more  convincing  than 
Addison  Blythe.  He  felt  rather  foolish.  Something,  it 
seemed,  had  fallen  very  flat.  He  evaded  Mr.  Hatch's 
eye. 

"  Sit  down,  Captain  Blythe,"  said  Courtney  affably. 
"  Hope  you  don't  mind  this  bath  gown.  Charlie,  make 
yourself  at  home  on  the  bed, — you  too,  Hatch.  We're 
as  shy  of  chairs  here  as  we  were  at  the  front,  you  see." 

Blythe  remained  for  half  an  hour  and  then  went 
away  with  his  two  companions.  Courtney  shook  hands 
with  him  and  said  good-bye  at  the  hall  door;  then  he 
strode  over  to  the  bureau  to  look  at  himself  in  the 
glass.  He  saw  reflected  therein  a  very  well  satisfied 
face,  with  brightly  confident  eyes  and  the  suggestion  of 
a  triumphant  smile. 

Hatch  accompanied  the  moody  Mr.  Webster  to  the 
warehouse  office. 

"  Strikes  me,  Charlie,"  said  he,  thoughtfully,  "  that 
of  the  two  our  friend  Courtney  seems  a  long  sight 
more  genuine  than  this  feller  Blythe.  I  guess  you're 
off  your  base,  old  boy.  Why,  darn  it,  he  Lad  Blythe  up 
in  the  air  half  the  time.  If  I  was  a  betting  man, 


WORDS  AND  LETTERS  169 

I'd  put  up  a  hundred  or  two  that  Blythe  never  even 
saw  the  places  they  were  talking  about." 

"  Do  you  think  Blythe  is  a  fake?  "  cried  Charlie  in 
some  heat. 

"  I  wouldn't  go  so  far  as  to  say  that,"  said  Hatch 
diplomatically,  "  but  you'll  have  to  admit  that  Court 
asked  him  a  lot  of  questions  he  didn't  seem  able  to 
answer." 

Charlie  stared  hard  at  the  floor  for  a  few  seconds. 
Then :  "  Well,  if  I  was  to  ask  you  what  my  mother's 
maiden  name  was,  Tintype,  you'd  have  to  say  you 
didn't  know,  wouldn't  you?  " 

"  Sure,"  said  Hatch.  "  But  I  wouldn't  go  so  far 
as  to  say  I  wasn't  certain  whether  she  had  a  maiden 
name  or  not,  would  I?" 

"  There's  no  use  arguing  with  you,  Hatch,"  said 
Charlie  irritably,  and  turned  to  his  desk  by  the  win- 
dow, there  to  frown  fiercely  over  his  scales  book. 


II 

Alix  and  Miss  Blythe  were  sitting  in  front  of  the 
fireplace  when  young  Blythe  entered  the  living-room 
on  his  return  from  Dowd's  Tavern.  The  former  looked 
up  at  him  brightly,  eagerly  as  he  planted  himself  be- 
tween them  with  his  back  to  the  cheerful  blaze. 
'  "Did  you  see  him?"  she  inquired.  He  was  struck 
by  the  deep,  straining  look  in  her  dark  eyes, — as  if 
she  were  searching  for  something  far  back  in  his  brain. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  as  he  took  his  pipe  and  tobacco 
pouch  from  his  pocket.  "  He  was  up  and  around  the 
room  and  was  as  pleased  as  Punch  to  see  me."  He 
began  stuffing  the  bowl  of  the  pipe.  "  He  is  a  most  at- 


170  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

tractive  chap,  Alix.  I  don't  know  when  I've  met  a 
more  agreeable  fellow." 

"  Then  you  had  not  met  before, — over  there?  " 

"  No.  We  missed  each  other  by  days  on  two  or 
three  occasions.  He  left  for  the  Vosges  just  before 
I  got  to  Pont-a-Mousson,  and  was  transferred  to  an- 
other section  when  we  all  went  up  to  Bar  le  Due  at 
the  time  of  the  Verdun  drive.  He  joined  the  Ambu- 
lance several  months  before  I  did,  and  was  shifted  about 
a  good  deal.  Had  some  trouble  with  a  French  officer 
at  Pont-a-Mousson  and  asked  to  be  transferred."  Here 
he  smiled  feelingly.  "  He's  got  a  mustard  plaster  on 
his  back  now,  he  says,  that  would  cover  an  army  mule. 
I  know  how  that  feels,  by  Jinks !  I  wore  one  for  three 
weeks  over  there  because  I  didn't  have  the  nerve  to 
rip  it  off." 

He  was  still  aware  of  the  unanswered  question  in  her 
eyes.  Changing  his  position  slightly,  he  busied  him- 
self with  the  lighting  of  his  pipe. 

"Was  he  expecting  you?  "  inquired  Alix. 

"Not  at  all.  It  seems  that  your  roly-poly  friend 
forgot  to  notify  him.  I  say,  Alix,  what  a  wonderful 
lot  of  pre-historic  junk  there  is  in  that  old  stable-yard. 
Webster  took  me  around  there  and  showed  me  the  stuff. 
Tell  me  something  about  the  place." 

Late  in  the  afternoon  Blythe, — after  submitting  to 
an  interview  at  the  hands  of  A.  Lincoln  Pollock, — sat 
alone  before  the  fire,  his  long  legs  stretched  out,  a 
magazine  lying  idly  in  his  lap,  his  pipe  dead  but  gripped 
firmly  in  the  hand  that  had  remained  stationary  for  a 
long,  long  time  halfway  to  his  lips.  He  was  staring 
abstractedly  into  the  neglected  fire. 


WORDS  AND  LETTERS  171 

His  sister  came  in.  He  was  not  aware  of  her  en- 
trance until  she  appeared  directly  in  front  of  him. 

"  Hello !  "  he  exclaimed,  blinking. 

"  What  is  on  your  mind,  Addy  ?  " 

He  glanced  over  his  shoulder. 

"Where  is  Alix?  " 

"Writing  letters.  There  were  two  or  three  she 
has  to  get  off  before  we  start  for  town."  She  sat 
(down  on  the  arm  of  his  chair.  "  You  may  as  well  tell 
me  what  you  really  think  of  him,  Addison.  Isn't  he 
good  enough  for  her?  " 

He  lowered  his  voice.  The  frown  of  perplexity  deep- 
ened in  his  eyes. 

"  I  can't  make  him  out,  Mary,"  he  said,  lowering 
his  voice. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  asked  quickly. 

**  Well,  I  may  be  doing  him  the  rottenest  injustice, 
but — somehow — he  doesn't  ring  quite  true  to  me." 

"For  goodness  sake,  Addy, — "  she  began,  and  then: 
*'  In  what  way?  Hurry  up!  Tell  me  before  she  comes 
idown.  Isn't  he  a — a  gentleman?  " 

"  Oh,  yes, — I  suppose  he  is.  He's  a  most  engaging 
chap;  he  certainly  seems  well-bred,  and  he's  darned 
good-looking.  That  isn't  what  I  mean."  He  hesitated 
a  moment  and  then  blurted  out :  "  Does  Alix  know 
positively  that  he  was  in  the  American  Ambulance? 
I  mean,  has  she  anybody  else's  word  for  it  except  his  ?  " 

Mary  Blythe  stared  at  her  brother,  her  lips  parted. 
[Then  her  eyes  narrowed  suddenly. 

"  Don't— don't  you  think  he's  straight,  Addy?  "  she 
half-whispered. 

"  I  confess  I'm  puzzled.     I  never  dreamed  of  doubt- 


172  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

ing  him  when  I  went  there.  But  I've  been  doing  a  lot 
of  thinking  since  I  saw  him,  and, — by  George,  Mary, 
I'm  up  a  tree.  Good-  Lord,  if  he  should  be — well,  if 
he  should  be  putting  something  over  on  Alix,  he  ought 
to  be  shot,  that's  all.  Do  you  think  she's  in  love  with 
him?" 

"  I  don't  know.  She's  interested  in  him,  I'm  sure, 
but  two  or  three  times  I  have  caught  the  queerest  little 
look  in  her  eyes  when  she  is  speaking  of  him, — almost 
as  if  she  were  afraid  of  something.  I  can't  describe  it. 
It's  just — well,  the  only  thing  I  can  think  of  is  that 
it's  kind  of  pleading,  if  you  know  what  I  mean." 

"  Groping,  I  guess  is  the  word  you're  after." 

"  Exactly.    But  go  on, — tell  me." 

"  It  won't  do  to  say  anything  about  this  to  Alix, 
Mary,"  said  he  firmly.  "  At  least  not  at  present.  Not 
until  I've  satisfied  myself.  I'm  going  to  write  to  three 
or  four  fellows  who  were  in  Section  Two  for  months, 
— before  I  was  there, — and  see  if  they  know  anything 
about  him.  I'd  write  to  Mr.  Hereford  himself,  but  he's 
in  Europe.  He  could  give  me  the  right  dope  in  a  min- 
ute. Piatt  Andrew's  in  France,  I  understand.  The 
records  will  show,  of  course,  but  it  will  take  time  to 
get  at  them.  We  must  not  breathe  a  word  of  all  this 
to  Alix,  Mary.  Understand?  I've  got  to  make  sure 
first.  It  would  be  unpardonable  if  I  were  to  make  a 
break  about  him  and  he  turned  out  to  be  all  right," 

"  You  must  find  out  as  quickly  as  possible,  Addison. 
We  would  never  forgive  ourselves  if  we  allowed  Alix 
to—" 

"  Don't  you  worry !  It  won't  take  long  to  get  a  line 
on  him.  I'd  telegraph  if  I  were  sure  of  the  addresses. 
I  ought  to  hear  in  three  or  four  days,  a  week  at  the 


WORDS  AND  LETTERS  173 

outside.  Of  course,  he  talks  very  convincingly.  That's 
what  floors  me.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  he's  too  darned 
convincing.  First  of  all,  he  called  me  Captain  Blythe 
all  the  time.  That  isn't  done  by  fellows  in  the  know. 
I'm  just  plain  Mister  these  days.  He  was  rather  hazy 
about  the  places  I  know  all  about,  and  tremendously 
clear  about  places  I've  never  even  heard  of, — the  places 
around  Pont-a-Mousson,  I  mean.  He  actually  looked 
suspicious  of  me  when  I  said  I  didn't  know  where  they 
were.  And  he  mentioned  a  lot  of  men  that  I  am  dead 
sure  never  were  up  at  Pont-a-Mousson, — either  before 
or  after  I  was  there.  Names  I  had  never  heard  before 
in  my  life.  And,  confound  it,  the  way  he  lifted  his 
eyebrows  made  me  feel  for  a  minute  or  two  that  I 
hadn't  been  there  myself.  He  says  that  since  his  injury 
and  his  sicknesses  his  memory  isn't  the  best,  but  when 
I  spoke  of  some  of  the  fellows  who  were  there  with 
me,  he  remembered  them  perfectly.  Didn't  know  them 
well,  because  he  wasn't  with  the  bunch  very  long,  it 
seems.  When  I  remarked  that  he  must  see  a  good 
bit  of  the  chaps  who  live  in  New  York  City,  he  told 
me  he  had  been  sick  ever  since  he  came  home  from 
England  and  hadn't  seen  one  of  the  crowd.  He  said 
he  knew  Pottle,  and  Fay,  and  Tyler,  Sudbery  and  sev- 
eral others, — so  I'm  going  to  write  to  all  of  them  to- 
morrow." 

"  It  would  be  terrible,  Addy,  if  she  were  to — " 

"  Mind  you,  old  girl,  I'm  not  saying  this  fellow  isn't 
square,"  he  interrupted.  "  He  may  be  all  he  says  he 
is.  He's  got  me  guessing,  that's  all." 

"  She  says  he  has  the  crolx  de  guerre  and  a  D.  S. 
medal." 

He  looked  at  her  pityingly.     "  I've  got  a  couple  of 


174  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

Iron  Crosses,  old  dear,  but  that  doesn't  mean  I  had 
'em  pinned  on  me  by  a  Boche  general.  I've  also  got  a 
German  helmet,  but  I  got  it  the  same  way  I  got  the 
Crosses, — off  of  a  German  whose  eyes  were  closed.  Any- 
how, I'd  like  to  see  his  medals.  Has  Alix  seen  them?  " 

"  His  mother  has  them  in  New  York,"  she  replied. 
She  stared  into  the  fire  for  a  moment  or  two  and  then 
turned  to  him,  a  look  of  deep  concern  in  her  eyes.  "  I 
think  Alix  is  in  love  with  him,  Addy.  She  isn't  herself 
at  all.  She  is  distrait.  Twice  this  afternoon  she  has 
asked  me  if  I  didn't  want  to  walk  down  into  the  village, 
— to  the  postoffice  or  the  library.  What  she  really 
wanted  to  do  was  to  walk  past  the  place  where  he  lives. 
Oh,  I  know  the  symptoms.  I've  had  them  myself, — ' 
when  I  was  younger  than  I  am  now.  We  don't  do  the 
things  at  thirty-two  that  we  did  at  twenty-four.  She 
is  the  dearest,  finest  girl  I've  ever  known,  .Addy.  We 
must  not  let  anything  happen  to  her." 

He  shook  his  head  slowly.  "  If  she  is  really  in  love 
with  him,  there's  nothing  we  can  do.  The  saying  that 
4  there's  no  fool  like  an  old  fool '  isn't  in  it  with  '  there's 
no  fool  like  a  woman  in  love.'  Look  at  Isabel  Harring- 
ton. Wasn't  she  supposed  to  be  as  sensible  as  they 
make  'em?  And  didn't  everybody  she  knew  tell  her 
what  kind  of  a  man  he  was?  Did  it  do  any  good?" 

"  She  knew  he  gambled, — and  drank — and  he  was  a 
fascinating  chap,  Addy.  You'll  admit  that." 

"  You  bet  I  admit  it.  It  was  certainly  proved  when 
those  other  women  turned  up  with  marriage  certificates, 
and  old  Mrs.  Mason  jumped  into  the  scrimmage  and 
had  him  arrested  for  swindling  her  out  of  thirty-five 
thousand  dollars,  and  the  New  York  police  came  along 
with  a  warrant  for — " 


WORDS  AND  LETTERS  175 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  interrupted  impatiently.  "  But  Alix 
is  quite  different.  She  is  not  a  fool,  and  Isabel  was, — 
and  still  is,  I  maintain.  You  have  seen  this  friend  of 
Alix's.  Is  he  attractive?" 

"  Well,"  he  mused  aloud,  "  unless  I  am  mistaken,  he 
is  the  sort  of  fellow  that  women  fall  for  without  much  of 
an  effort.  The  sort  that  can  fool  women  but  can't 
fool  men,  Mary,  if  that  means  anything  to  you.  Now 
that  I  think  of  it,  I  believe  Webster  and  that  friend 
of  his  are —  Well,  I'm  sure  they  don't  like  him.  He — " 

"Sh!    She  is  coming!" 

Alix's  quick,  light  tread  was  heard  in  the  hall.  She 
came  from  her  "  office  "  in  the  wing  where  the  kitchen 
was  situated. 

There  was  a  heightened  colour  in  her  cheeks  and  her 
lovely  eyes  were  shining. 

"  Well,  that  job  is  done,"  she  cried,  tossing  two  or 
three  letters  on  the  table.  "  Don't  let  me  forget  them, 
Mary.  I'll  post  them  in  the  city.  We  leave  at  six 
o'clock,  Addison.  I  telephoned  to  town  and  asked 
George  Richards  to  meet  us  at  the  Raleigh  at  a  quarter 
before  seven.  I  am  dreadfully  disappointed,  Mary,  that 
Mr.  Thane  cannot  go,  but  you  will  like  George.  Mr. 
Thane  never  goes  to  town.  He  was  going  to  break  his 
rule  tonight,  and  now  he  can't  go.  Isn't  that  always 
the  way?" 

"  Mary's  awfully  partial  to  Georges,"  said  Addison, 
*  so  don't  you  worry  about  her.  I  know  I  shall  have 
a  better  time  if  Thane  isn't  in  the  party.  To  be  per- 
fectly frank  with  you,  I'm  jolly  well  fed  up  with  Mary, 
• — as  we  say  in  London.  And  if  Thane  was  along  I'd 
Tiave  to  talk  to  her  for  three  solid —  Why,  'pon  my 
soul,  Alix,  you're  blushing  I  " 


176  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"  Don't  be  silly !  " 

"  Skip  along,  Addy,  and  see  how  quickly  you  can 
dress,"  interposed  his  sister  briskly.  "  You've  got 
forty-six  minutes. ** 

"  I  can  dress  and  undress  three  times  in  forty-six 
minutes,  and  still  have  time  to  read  the  evening  paper 
and  do  a  few  odd  chores  about  the  place.  I  say,  Alix, 
red  is  awfully  becoming  to  you."  With  that  parting 
shot,  he  disappeared. 

Ill 

One  of  the  envelopes  on  the  table  was  addressed  to 
David  Strong.  It  was  a  reply  to  a  special  delivery 
letter  received  in  the  afternoon  post.  He  had  been  very 
prompt  in  responding  to  Alix's  curt  note,  and  she  was 
being  equally  prompt  with  her  answer.  There  were 
stamps  sufficient  on  hers  to  insure  "  special  delivery  " 
to  him. 

He  had  written : 

DEAR  ALIX: 

I  have  not  received  the  bracelet  yet.  Registered  mail 
moves  slowly.  If  I  did  not  know  you  so  well,  I  might  even 
hope  that  you  had  changed  your  mind  at  the  last  minute 
and  did  not  send  it.  But  I  know  it  will  come  along  in  a  day 
or  so.  I  shall  not  ask  you  to  explain  why  you  are  return- 
ing my  gift.  You  have  a  good  reason,  no  doubt.  We  have 
not  been  very  friendly  of  late.  I  admit  that  I  have  been 
stubborn  about  paying  back  the  money  your  grandfather 
lent  to  me,  and  I  suppose  I  have  not  been  very  gentle- 
manly or  tactful  in  trying  to  make  you  understand.  I  still 
maintain  that  it  is  a  very  silly  thing  for  us  to  quarrel  about, 
but  I  am  not  going  to  hector  you  about  it  how.  I  trust 
you  will  forgive  me  if  I  add  to  your  annoyance  by  saying 


WORDS  AND  LETTERS  177 

that  I'd  like  to  be  where  I  could  shake  a  little  sense  into 
that  stubborn  head  of  yours. 

You  are  returning  my  gift.  As  I  told  you  when  I  sent 
it  to  you,  it  was  given  me  by  a  French  lady  whose  son  I 
had  taken  care  of  and  for  whose  ultimate  recovery  I  was 
perhaps  responsible.  She  appreciated  the  fact  that  I  could 
not  r  / j  would  not  accept  pay  for  my  services.  This  much 
I  have  told  you  before.  Now,  I  shall  tell  you  something 
more.  When  she  pressed  it  upon  me  she  said  that  I  was  to 
give  it  to  my  sweetheart  back  in  America.  I  gave  it  to 
you.  I  daresay  I  am  greatly  to  blame  for  never  having  told 
yrm  before  that  you  were  my  sweetheart,  Alix. 

Very  sincerely  yours, 

DAVID. 

To  this  Alix  replied: 

DEAR  DAVID: 

By  this  time  you  will  have  received  the  bracelet.  It  is 
not  beyond  the  bounds  of  probability  that  you  may  yet  be 
in  a  position  to  carry  out  the  terms  imposed  by  the  lady  in 
France.  All  the  more  reason  for  my  returning  it  to  you. 
You  are  now  free  to  give  it  to  any  one  to  whom  you  may 
have  confided  the  astonishing  secret  you  so  successfully 
withheld  from  me.  You  seem  to  have  forgotten  that  I  gave 
you  a  receipt  in  full  for  the  amount  you  are  supposed  to 
have  owed  my  grandfather's  estate.  I  did  this  with  the 
consent  of  my  lawyer.  He  said  it  was  perfectly  legal  and 
that  it  was  in  my  power  to  cancel  the  so-called  obligation, — 
especially  as  we  have  no  documentary  evidence  that  you 
ever  had  promised  to  reimburse  my  grandfather.  On  the 
contrary,  as  I  have  told  you  over  and  over  again,  I  have 
in  my  possession  a  statement  written  by  Grandfather  Win- 
dom  which  absolutely  settles  the  matter.  He  states  in  so 
many  words  that  in  making  his  will  he  failed  to  mention  his 
"  beloved  young  friend,  David  Strong  "  as  a  beneficiary,  in 


J78  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

view  of  the  fact  that  "  I  have  made  him  a  substantial  gift 
during  the  closing  years  of  my  life  in  the  shape  of  such 
education  as  he  may  require,  and  for  which  I  trust  him  to 
repay  me,  not  in  money,  but  in  the  simplest  and  truest  form 
of  compensation:  gratitude."  In  spite  of  this,  you  con- 
tinue to  offend  me, — I  might  even  say  insult  me, — by 
choosing  to  consider  his  gift  as  an  obligation  which  c?^i  only 
be  met  by  paying  money  to  me.  All  that  you  owed  my 
grandfather  was  gratitude  and  respect.  As  for  myself,  I 
relieve  you  of  the  former  but  I  do  think  I  am  entitled  to 
the  latter. 

Yours  sincerely, 

ALIX  CROWN 

The  same  post  that  carried  her  letter  east  was  to 
take  one  from  Courtney  Thane  to  his  mother. 

DEAREST  MATER: 

I  am  going  to  ask  Alix  Crown  to  marry  me.  I  have  hesi- 
tated to  do  so  for  obvious  reasons,  perfectly  clear  to  you. 
Now,  I  have  decided.  She  understands  my  financial  situa- 
tion. She  knows  that  I  am  almost  entirely  dependent  on 
you  for  support  at  present.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the  war 
and  my  confounded  ill-health,  I  should,  of  course,  have 
been  quite  independent  by  this  time.  I  have  explained  my 
present  unbearable  situation  to  her  in  a  general  sort  of  way, 
and  I  know  that  she  is  in  complete  sympathy  with  me. 
Your  resolve  to  not  increase  my  allowance  is,  I  suppose, 
irrevocable.  I  shall  soon  be  in  a  position,  I  hope,  to  dis- 
pense with  what  you  are  already  so  gracious  as  to  allow 
me.  I  have  not  deemed  it  wise  to  tell  her  at  this  time  of 
my  unfortunate  and,  as  you  say,  foolish  mismanagement  of 
my  affairs  before  and  after  father's  death.  When  all  is  said 
and  done,  he  didn't  leave  me  very  much.  It  went  before 
I  quite  knew  what  was  happening,  and  I  submit  that  it  was 
bad  judgment  due  to  my  youth  rather  than  to  recklessness, 


WORDS  AND  LETTERS  170 

as  old  Mumford  claims.  I'll  make  him  eat  his  words  some 
day.  Thanks  for  your  cheque.  You  are  a  darling.  You're 
the  best  mother  a  fellow  ever  had.  I  quite  understand  your 
position,  so  don't  lose  a  moment's  sleep  thinking  that  I 
may  be  resenting  your  decision.  I  shall  manage  very 
nicely  on  what  you  give  me.  It  is  ample  for  my  present 
needs.  I  shall  probably  find  it  rather  humiliating  when  it 
comes  time  for  a  wedding  journey,  but,  bless  your  dear 
old  heart,  I'll  manage  somehow. 

I  am  quite  well  and  very  happy.  Hope  you  are  the  same. 
By  the  way,  have  you  made  that  visit  to  Washington  ? 

Your  loving  son, 

COURTNEY. 

P.S.— I  am  still  looking  for  the  little  parcel  I  asked 
you  to  send  me.  Have  you  forgotten  to  attend  to  it? 

C. 

As  Alix  and  her  friends  went  out  to  the  automobile, 
the  big  police  dog  trotted  beside  Addison  Blythe,  look- 
ing up  into  his  face  with  pleased  and  friendly  eyes. 
Pie  allowed  the  man  to  stroke  his  head  and  rumple  the 
thick  fur  on  his  back. 

"  He  likes  you,  Addison,"  said  Alix,  a  serious  little 
frown  in  her  eyes.  "  I  can't  understand  his  not  liking 
Courtney  Thane.  His  hair  fairly  bristles  and  he  growls 
like  a  bear  every  time  he  sees  him.  Isn't  it  odd?" 

Blythe  looked  up  quickly.  It  was  on  the  tip  of  his 
tongue  to  say  something  tactless.  What  he  did  say 
was  this : 

"Can  you  blame  the  poor  dog  for  being  jealous?." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    OLD    INDIAN    TRAIL 

COURTNEY  delayed.  A  certain  aloofness  on 
Alix's  part  caused  him  to  hesitate.  Something 
in  her  manner  following  upon  the  visit  of  the 
Blythes  invited  speculation.  She  was  as  pleasant  as 
ever,  yet  he  sensed  a  subtle  change  that  warned  him 
of  defeat  if  he  attempted  to  storm  the  citadel.  His 
confidence  was  slightly  shaken, — but  not  his  resolve. 

'*  She's  been  different  ever  since  those  infernal  Blythes 
were  here,"  he  reflected  aloud,  scowling  as  he  watched 
her  pass  in  the  car  several  days  after  the  departure  of 
her  guests. 

She  went  to  the  city  nearly  every  day  now,  and 
seldom  returned  before  dark.  Somehow  he  felt  that  his 
grip  was  slipping.  He  was  standing  in  front  of  the 
Tavern.  She  had  waved  her  hand  to  him,  and  had 
smiled  gaily,  but  it  was  not  the  first  time  that  week 
she  had  failed  to  stop  and  repeat  her  usual  invitation 
for  him  to  accompany  her,  even  though  she  knew  he 
would  politely  decline.  He  resented  this  oversight. 
How  could  she  know  that  he  hadn't  changed  his  mind 
about  going  to  the  city?  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  had 
changed  it.  He  would  have  gone  like  a  shot.  Indeed, 
he  had  dressed  with  that  very  object  in  view, — and  she 
had  gone  by  with  a  casual  wave  of  her  hand.  His 
annoyance  was  increased  by  the  remark  of  Mr.  Nichols, 
who  was  standing  at  the  top  of  the  steps  at  the  time. 
180 


THE  OLD  INDIAN  TRAIL  181 

"  Thought  you  said  you  was  going  up  to  town,  Court- 
ney^" said  the  old  man,  with  a  detestable  grin  on  his 
wrinkled  visage. 

"  I  didn't  say  anything  of  the  kind,"  snapped  Court- 
ney, and  strode  off  angrily. 

His  stroll, — and  his  reflections, — tooK  him  up  the 
old  Indian  trail  along  the  bank  of  the  river.  He  wanted 
solitude.  He  wanted  to  be  where  he  could  talk  without 
fear  of  being,  overheard.  There  was  much  that  he  had 
to  say  to  himself. 

The  rarely  used  path  through  the  willows  and  un- 
derbrush ran  along  the  steep  bank,  sometimes  within 
a  few  feet  of  water.  Once  before  he  had  walked  a 
couple  of  hundred  yards  over  this  ancient,  hard-packed 
trail  of  Tccumseh's  people,  but  had  been  turned  back 
by  the  sight  of  a  small  snake  wriggling  off  into  the 
long  grass  ahead  of  him.  That  was  in  the  warm  days 
of  early  September.  There  was  no  likelihood  of  ser- 
pents being  abroad  on  this  chill  October  morning. 

Leaving  the  road  at  the  cut  above  the  ferry  landing, 
he  turned  into  the  trail.  A  half  hour's  walk  brought 
him  to  the  gradually  rising,  rock-covered  slope  that  led 
to  the  base  of  Quill's  Window.  On  all  sides  were 
great,  flat  slabs  of  stone,  some  of  them  almost  buried 
in  the  earth,  others  sticking  their  jagged  points  up 
above  the  brush  and  weeds.  Back  in  ages  dim  these 
drab,  moss-covered  rocks  had  been  sliced  from  the  side 
of  the  towering  mound  by  the  forces  that  shaped  the 
earth,  to  be  hurled  hither  and  thither  with  the  calm  dis- 
dain of  the  mighty.  No  human  agency  had  blasted 
them  from  their  insecure  hold  on  the  shoulders  of  the 
cliff.  Uncounted  centuries  ago  they  had  come  bound- 
ing, crashing  down  from  the  heights,  shaken  loose  by 


182  (QUILL'S  WINDOW 

the  convulsions  of  Mother  Earth,  tearing  their  way 
through  the  feeble  barrier  of  trees  to  a  henceforth  place 
of  security. 

The  trail  wound  in  and  out  among  these  boulders, 
dividing  at  a  point  several  hundred  feet  south  of  the 
steep  ascent  to  the  top  of  the  great  black  mound.  The 
main-travelled  path  turned  in  from  the  river  at  this 
point,  to  skirt  the  hill  at  its  rear.  A  more  tortuous 
way,  traversed  presumably  by  the  fishers  and  hunters 
of  the  tribes,  or  perhaps  by  war  parties  in  swift  pur- 
suit or  retreat,  held  directly  to  the  bank  of  the  stream 
and  passed  along  the  front  of  the  cliff. 

Courtney  took  the  latter  branch.  Presently  he  was 
picking  his  way  carefully  along  the  base  of  the  cliff, 
scrambling  over  and  between  the  rocks  that  formed  a 
narrow  ledge  between  the  river  and  the  sheer  face  of 
QuilPs  Window.  He  was  now  some  fifty  or  sixty  feet 
above  the  cold,  grey  water.  Below  him  grew  a  line  of 
stunted,  ragged  underbrush,  springing  from  the  earth- 
filled  fissures  among  the  boulders.  Across  the  river 
stretched  far  away  the  farms  and  fields  of  the  far- 
famed  grain-belt. 

He  sat  down  upon  a  rock  and  gazed  out  over  these 
fertile  lands,  now  crowded  with  shocks  of  corn  or  rusty 
with  the  dead  glories  of  summer.  There  were  great 
square  fields  of  stubble,  fenced-in  patches  of  pasture- 
land,  small  oases  of  woodland,  houses  and  barns  and 
silos  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach, — and  always  the 
huge  red  barns  dwarfed  the  houses  in  which  the  farmers 
dwelt.  Cattle  and  sheep  and  horses,  wagons  and  men, 
all  made  small  and  insignificant  in  the  sweep  of  this 
great  and  solemn  panorama. 


THE  OLD  INDIAN  TRAIL  183 

The  home  of  Amos  Vick  was  visible,  standing  half- 
a-mile  back  from  the  river.  He  looked  hard  and  long 
at  the  house  in  which  he  had  spent  the  first  three  weeks 
of  his  stay  in  the  country.  So  young  Cale  had  gone 
off  to  join  the  Navy,  eh?  Good!  And  Rosabel, — 
what  of  her?  What  was  she  doing  over  at  the  old  Win- 
dom  house  that  day?  Could  it  have  been  she  who  was 
watching  him?  Looking  badly,  too,  they  said.  Such  a 
strong,  pretty,  wind-tanned  young  thing  she  was  !  How 
long  ago  was  it?  Not  two  months.  .  .  .  He  lit  a 
cigarette  and  resumed  his  way,  the  shadow  of  a  fond 
smile  lingering  in  his  eyes. 

Rounding  the  curve,  he  came  to  that  side  of  the 
stone  hill  which  faced  up  the  river.  He  had  passed 
many  small,  shallow  niches  along  the  base  of  the  emi- 
nence, miniature  caves  from  which  oozed  what  might 
well  have  been  described  as  sweat.  There  were,  besides, 
deep  upright  slashes  in  the  side  of  the  rock,  higher 
than  his  head,  suggesting  to  the  imagination  the  vain 
effort  of  some  unhappy  giant  to  burst  through  the  walls 
of  his  rocky  prison, — some  monster  of  a  man  who  now 
lay  dead  in  the  heart  of  the  hill.  The  turn  took  him 
farther  away  from  the  river. 

He  was  looking  now  into  the  tops  of  several  tall  syca- 
mores that  rose  from  the  low  ground  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill.  Extending  far  to  the  north  along  the  river 
was  a  fringe  of  these  much  be-sung  trees.  The  space 
between  the  straight  face  of  the  cliff  and  the  edge  of 
the  ledge  on  which  he  stood  was  not  more  than  seven 
or  eight  feet.  It  was  possible,  he  perceived,  for  one 
to  continue  along  and  down  this  natural  path  to  the 
bottom  of  the  lull,  coming  out  among  the  trees  in  the 


184  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

low  ground.  The  descent,  however,  was  a  great  deal 
more  precipitous  than  the  ascent  from  the  other  direc- 
tion. 

Now  that  he  was  immediately  below  the  cave  known 
as  Quill's  Window,  he  was  surprised  to  find  that  the 
cliff  was  not  absolutely  perpendicular.  There  was  quite 
a  pronounced  slant ;  the  top  of  the  wall  was,  at  a  guess, 
ten  feet  farther  back  than  the  foot.  His  gaze  first 
sought  the  strange  opening  three-fourths  of  the  way 
to  the  top, — a  matter  of  eighty  or  ninety  feet  above  the 
spot  on  which  he  stood.  There  it  was, — a  deep,  black 
gash  in  the  solid  rock,  rendered  narrow  by  fore-short- 
ening and  a  slightly  protruding  brow.  He  could  think 
of  nothing  more  analogous  than  an  open  mouth  with 
a  thick  upper  lip  and  the  nether  lip  drawn  in. 

Then  he  saw  what  surprised  him  even  more, — some- 
thing that  none  of  the  chroniclers  had  mentioned:  a 
series  of  hand-cut  niches  up  the  face  of  the  cliff,  lead- 
ing directly  to  the  mouth  of  the  cave.  He  had  been 
given  to  understand  that  there  was  no  other  means  of 
reaching  Quill's  Window  save  from  the  top  of  the  rock. 
These  niches  or  "  hand-holds  "  were  about  two  feet 
apart.  He  examined  the  lower  ones.  They  were  deeply 
chiselled,  affording  a  substantial  foothold  as  well  as 
a  grip  for  a  strong,  resolute  climber.  Most  of  them 
were  packed  with  dirty,  wind  blown  leaves  from  the 
trees  nearby, — so  tightly  packed  by  the  furious  rains 
that  beat  against  the  rock  that  he  had  difficulty  in  re- 
moving the  substance.  Higher  up  they  appeared  to 
be  quite  clean  and  free  from  obstruction. 

He  scraped  the  leaves  out  of  five  or  six  of  the  slits, 
one  after  the  other,  as  he  climbed  a  short  distance 


THE  OLD  INDIAN  TRAIL  185 

up  the  wall.  Further  progress  was  checked,  not  so 
much  by  lack  of  desire  to  go  to  the  top,  but  by  an 
involuntary  glance  over  his  shoulder.  He  was  not 
more  than  ten  feet  above  the  trail,  but  the  trail  was 
shockingly  narrow  and  uneven.  So  down  he  came,  quite 
thrilled  by  his  discovery,  to  lean  against  the  rock  and 
laugh  scornfully  over  the  silly  tales  about  Quill's  Win- 
dow and  its  eerie  impregnability.  Anybody  could  climb 
up  there!  All  that  one  needed  was  a  stout  heart  and 
a  good  pair  of  arms.  Closer  inspection  convinced  hint 
that  these  niches  were  of  comparatively  recent  origin, 
— certainly  they  were  not  of  Quill's  time.  David  Win- 
idom?  Had  that  adventurous  lad  hewn  this  ladder  to 
the  cave  long  before  the  beautiful  Alix  the  First  came 
to  complete  the  romance  of  his  dreams? 

No  matter  who  cut  them,  they  were  still  there  to 
prove  that  Quill's  Window  was  accessible.  According 
to  tradition,  no  one  had  put  foot  inside  the  cave  since 
David  Windom,  in  his  youth,  had  ventured  to  explore 
its  grisly  interior.  Courtney  promised  himself  that 
one  day  he  would  enter  that  unhallowed  hole  in  the 
wall! 

Retracing  his  steps  over  the  trail,  he  soon  found 
himself  in  the  village.  He  was  more  cheerful  now* 
He  had  talked  himself  into  a  better  frame  of  mind. 
.  .  .  She  was  shy.  She  had  reached  the  turning 
point, — the  inevitable  point  where  women  tremble  with 
a  strange  mixture  of  alarm  and  rapture,  and  are  as 
timid  as  the  questioning  deer.  What  a  fool  he  was 
not  to  have  thought  of  that ! 

There  was  a  small  package  in  his  lockbox  at  the 
postoffice — and  two  or  three  letters.  The  package 


186  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

was  from  New  York,  addressed  in  his  mother's  hand. 

He  stopped  at  the  general  delivery  window  for  a 
chat  with  Mrs.  Pollock. 

"I  had  forgotten  all  about  my  birthday,"  he  said, 
"  but  here's  mother  reminding  me  of  it  as  usual.  She 
never  forgets, — and,  hang  it  all,  she  won't  let  me  for- 
get." He  fingered  the  unopened  package  lovingly. 

"  Goodness  me,  Mr.  Thane, — is  this  your  birth- 
clay?"  she  cried  excitedly.  "We  must  have  a  cele- 
bration. We  can't  allow — " 

"  Alas,  it  is  too  late.  Your  super-efficient  postal 
service  has  brought  this  to  me  just  forty-eight  hours 
behind  time.  Day  before  yesterday  was  the  day,  now 
that  I  think  of  it." 

Mrs.  Pollock  mentally  resolved  to  indite  a  short  poem 
to  him,  notwithstanding.  She  could  feel  it  coming,  even 
as  she  stood  there  talking  to  him.  The  first  line  was 
already  written,  so  to  speak.  It  went: 

"  The  flight  of  Time  has  brought  once  more — " 

He  continued,  oblivious  to  the  workings  of  the  Muse : 
"  Twenty-nine !  By  Jove,  I  begin  to  feel  that  I'm  get- 
ting on  in  life."  He  ripped  open  one  of  the  envelopes. 

Maude  Baggs  Pollock  looked  intently  at  the  ceiling 
of  the  outer  office,  and  thought  of  line  number  two : 

"  The  busy  Reaper  to  his  door," 

She  hastily  snatched  a  pencil  from  her  hair  and  be- 
gan jotting  down  these  precious  lines.  Fumbling  for  a 
bit  of  paper  her  fingers  encountered  an  £nvelope  ad- 
dressed to  Alaska  Spigg.  The  Muse  worked  swiftly. 


THE  OLD  INDIAN  TRAIL  187 

Before  she  had  dashed  off  the  first  two  lines,  the  second 
pair  were  crowding  down  upon  them,  to  wit : 

"  But  while  he  whets  his  fatal  scythe, 
Gaze  ye  upon  his  victim  lithe." 

At  this  juncture  George  Rice's  son  came  in  for  a 
half  dozen  postal  cards,  and  while  she  was  making 
change  for  a  dime  the  Muse  forsook  her.  Bent  on  pre- 
serving the  lines  already  shaped,  she  stuffed  Alaska's 
letter  into  the  pocket  of  her  apron,  intending  to  copy 
them  at  the  first  leisure  moment.  Unfortunately  for 
Alaska,  there  was  a  rush  of  business  at  the  window,  in- 
cluding an  acrimonious  dispute  with  Mrs.  Ryan  over  the 
non-arrival  of  a  letter  she  was  expecting  from  her  son, 
and  a  lengthy  conversation  with  Miss  Flora  Grady  who 
dropped  in  to  say  that  her  chilblains  always  began  to 
bother  her  in  October.  In  the  meantime,  Courtney  de- 
parted. 

Two  days  later,  Alaska  Spigg  received  her  letter, 
considerably  crumpled  and  smelling  of  licorice  root, — 
(a  favourite  remedy  of  Mrs.  Pollock's) — but  rendered 
precious  by  the  presence  of  a  mysterious  "  quatrain  " 
done  in  violet  hues  by  some  poetic  wielder  of  an  indel- 
ible pencil.  Guilt  denied  Maude  Baggs  Pollock  the  right 
to  claim  authorship  of  these  imperishable  lines,  and 
to  this  day  they  remain  unidentified  in  the  archives  of 
the  Windomville  Public  Library,  displayed  upon  re- 
quest by  Alaska  Spigg,  their  proud  and  unselfish  donor. 

Courtney  read  two  of  his  letters.  The  third  he  con- 
signed, unopened,  to  the  fireplace  at  Dowd's  Tavern. 
The  little  package,  minus  the  wrapping  paper,  was 
locked  away  in  his  trunk. 


188  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

Charlie  Webster,  emerging  from  his  office  at  the  Sin- 
ter hour —twelve  noon,— espied  Miss  Angie  Miller  hur^ 
rying  toward  the  Tavern.  He  hailed  her,— not  cere- 
moniously or  even  gallantly,— but  in  the  manner  of 
Windomville. 

"  Hey ! "  he  called,  and  Angie  promptly  responded, 
not  with  the  dignity  for  which  she  was  famous  but  with 
an,  entirely  human  spontaneity : 

"Hey  yourself!" 

She  waited  till  he  caught  up  with  her. 

"  Have  you  had  an  answer  to  that  letter,  Angie?  "  he 
inquired,  glancing  at  a  small  bunch  of  letters  she  held 
in  her  hand. 

"No,  I  haven't,"  she  replied,  somewhat  guardedly. 
"  I  can't  understand  why  he  hasn't  answered,  Charlie, 
— unless  he's  away  or  something." 

"  Must  be  that,"  said  he,  frowning  slightly.  "  You 
wrote  nearly  two  weeks  ago,  didn't  you?  " 

"  Two  weeks  ago  yesterday." 

"  Sure  you  had  the  right  address  ?  " 

"  Absolutely.  Thirty-three  Cedar  Street.  He's  had 
an  office  there  for  ever  so  long.  I  ought  to  know  where 
my  uncle's  office  is,  oughtn't  I?" 

"  I  thought  maybe  you  might  have  got  the  wrong 
tree,"  explained  Charlie. 

"  It's  Cedar,"  said  Miss  Angie  flatly. 

"  Cedar  and  pine  are  a  good  deal  alike,  except  in — '* 
began  Charlie,  doubtfully. 

"Goodness!"  cried  Miss  Angie,  stopping  short. 
"  It  w  Pine !  How  perfectly  stupid  of  me !  How  utterly 
reprehensible ! " 

Charlie  stared  at  her  a  moment  in  sheer  idisdain. 
"  Well,  by  gosh,  if  that  ain't  like  a  woman,"  he  ex- 


THE  OLD  INDIAN  TRAIL  189 

claimed  disgustedly.  "I'd  hate  to  send  you  for  a 
half  dozen  oranges  if  there  were  any  lemons  in  the 
market." 

"He  is  such  a  well-known  lawyer,"  began  Angie 
humbly,  "  that  you  would  think  the  mail  carrier 
would—" 

"What  did  you  say  his  name  was?" 

"  Joseph  Smith.     He  is  my  mother's  brother." 

"East  or  West?" 

"  East  or  west  what?  " 

"Pine  Street.  Same  as  North  Fourth  Street  and 
South  Fourth  Street  up  in  the  city.  It  runs  both 
ways,  Angie, — you  poor  simp." 

"  I  shall  write  to  him  again  this  evening,"  said  Angie 
stiffly.  "  And  I'll  thank  you,  Charlie  Webster,  to  re- 
member that  I  am  a  lady  and  not  a — " 

"  I  apologize,  Angie,"  cried  Charlie. 

"You'd  better!" 

They  walked  along  in  silence  for  a  few  rods.  Then 
Charlie  spoke. 

"  You  say  your  uncle  was  mixed  up  in  a  lawsuit  of 
some  kind  concerning  the  Thane  family?" 

"  I  remember  it  distinctly.  It  was  five  or  six  years 
ago,  before  my  mother  died.  He  wrote  her  a  letter 
about  it  when  he  found  out  that  the  Thanes  originally 
came  from  this  neighbourhood.  I  don't  remember  what 
it  was  all  about,  but  I  think  it  was  some  kind  of  a 
rumpus  over  money." 

"  Well,  you  write  tonight,  Angie,"  ordered  Mr.  Web- 
ster ;  "  and  remember  it  ain't  Cedar,  or  Oak,  or  Ma- 
hogany. It's  Pine, — the  stuff  you  make  boxes  of." 

Much  to  Courtney's  dismay,  Alix  remained  in  town 
over  night.  He  went  up  to  the  house  that  evening, 


190  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

only  to  receive  this  disconcerting  bit  of  information. 
Halfway  home,  he  stopped  short  in  the  road,  con- 
fronted by  a  most  astonishing  doubt.  Had  she  really 
stayed  in  town?  Could  it  be  possible  that  she  was  at 
home  and  did  not  care  to  see  him?  Was  it  an  excuse? 
He  compressed  his  lips.  With  lightning  rapidity  cer- 
tain bits  of  circumstantial  evidence  raced  through  his 
mind.  In  the  first  place,  there  was  Sergeant,  the  police 
dog.  He  wished  he  could  remember  whether  he  had 
seen  the  animal  in  the  car  with  her  that  morning.  It 
was  her  custom  to  take  the  dog  with  her  when  she  went 
up  for  the  day.  One  thing  was  certain:  Sergeant  was 
now  at  home.  Did  that  mean  she  had  returned  from 
the  city? 

And  then  there  was  another  extraordinary  thing, — 
something  to  which  he  had  not  given  a  thought  till  now. 
The  dog  was  on  the  terrace  when  he  strode  up  the 
walk.  Not  only  was  he  there,  but  he  interposed  his  lean, 
bristling  body  between  him  and  the  porch-steps,  growl- 
ing ominously  and  showing  his  teeth.  He  did  not  bark. 
He  merely  stood  there,  daring  him  to  approach.  Court- 
ney remembered  saying  to  himself: 

"  There's  one  thing  sure,  you  and  I  can't  live  in 
the  same  house,  you  filthy  brute.  You'd  better  learn 
how  to  say  your  prayers,  my  amiable  friend." 

It  was  not  so  much  the  presence  of  the  dog  or  his 
inimical  attitude  that  troubled  him  now  as  the  fact 
that  Mrs.  Strong  opened  the  front  door  without  having 
been  summoned  by  the  bell.  What  did  that  signify? 
But  one  thing:  either  she  or  some  one  else  had  been 
waiting  and  watching  for  his  arrival, — waiting  behind 
the  window  curtains  of  a  darkened  room ! 

44  Well,— I'm  damned !  "  he  swore  to  himself,  as  the 


THE  OLD  INDIAN  TRAIL  191 

blood  rushed  furiously  to  his  head.  For  an  instant  he 
saw  red.  "  Good  Lord,  what  have  I  done  to  deserve 
such  a  slap  in  the  face  as  this?  What  can  be —  But, 
what  the  devil's  the  matter  with  me?  Of  course,  she's 
in  town!  I  must  be  going  batty.  Certainly  she's  in 
town.  She — but,  even  so,  why  should  she  have  gone 
off  like  this  without  saying  a  word  to  me  about  it?. 
She  didn't  mention  it  last  night.  Not  a  word.  And 
she  must  have  known  then  she  was  planning  to  spend  the 
night, — why,  by  gad,  I  wonder  if  she  calls  that  being 
fair  with  me?  Letting  me  trail  up  here  tonight,  ex- 
pecting—  Any  way  you  want  to  look  at  it,  it's  rotten, 
— just  plain  rotten!" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

SUSPICION 

EARLY  the  next  morning  she  called  him  up  from 
the  city.  She  explained  everything.  The  little 
daughter  of  her  best  friend  had  fallen  down- 
stairs, injuring  herself  badly, — perhaps  fatally.  She 
felt  it  her  duty  to  remain  with  the  distracted  mother, — 
she  hoped  he  would  understand.  And  she  was  in  such 
a  hurry  to  reach  the  city  after  the  child's  father  had 
called  her  on  the  telephone  that  she  really  did  not  have 
the  time  to  stop  and  explain.  He  would  understand 
that,  too,  wouldn't  he?  And  she  thought  perhaps  she 
would  stay  over  another  night.  She  couldn't  leave 
Mar j one, — at  least,  not  until  something  definite  was 
known. 

He  was  vastly  relieved.  All  his  worry  for  nothing! 
He  wished  now  that  he  had  remained  in  his  room  in- 
stead of  going  out  a  second  time  last  night  to  tramp 
about  the  dark,  lonely  village,  driven  forth  by  an  ugly 
fit  of  temper. 

"  But  Mrs.  Strong  didn't  say  anything  about  the 
accident,"  he  said  over  the  wire.  "  She  simply  said  you 
were  in  town  for  the  night." 

"  I  can't  understand  that,"  replied  Alix.  "  She  knew 
why  I  came  up  to  town,  and  I  telephoned  her  during 
the  afternoon  that  I  would  stay  overnight. 

"She  might  have  told  me,"  he  complained.     "It 
would  have  relieved  my  mind  enormously.     I — I  was 
192 


SUSPICION  193 

horribly  unhappy.  Never  closed  my  eyes.  I  thought 
you, — that  is,  I  wondered  if  I  had  done  anything  to 
offend  you.  My  Lord,  you'll  never  know  how  happy  I 
am  this  minute.  My  heart  is  singing.  And  to  think 
it  was  like  a  lump  of  lead  all  last  night.  Do  try  to 
come  out  this  evening." 

She  did  not  answer  at  once,  but  he  could  plainly 
hear  her  breathing.  Then  she  said  softly : 

"  If — if  the  child  is  better.  I  can't  leave  Marjorie 
until— until—  " 

"  I  understand,"  he  cried  heartily.  "  What  a  selfish 
beast  I  am.  Don't  give  me  another  thought.  Your 
place  is  there.  Because  you  are  an  angel !  " 

Later  on  he  sauntered  over  to  the  postoffice.  A  num- 
ber of  men  and  women  were  congregated  in  front  of 
the  drug  store,  among  them  Charlie  Webster  and  A. 
Lincoln  Pollock.  The  latter  had  his  "pad"  in  hand 
and  was  writing  industriously. 

"What's  the  excitement?"  Courtney  inquired,  com- 
ing up  to  Charlie. 

"  Somebody  poisoned  Henry  Brickler's  collie  last 
night,"  replied  Charlie.  There  was  a  dark  scowl  on 
his  chubby  face. 

"  You  don't  mean  that  corking  dog  up  at  the  white 
house  on  the — " 

"Yep.  That's  the  one,"  replied  Charlie  harshly. 
"  Anybody  that  would  poison  a  dog  ought  to  be  tarred 
and  feathered." 

"Who  did  it?" 

"  You  don't  suppose  a  man  mean  enough  to  give  an 
unsuspectin'  dog  a  dose  of  poison  would  be  kind  enough 
to  pin  his  card  on  the  gatepost,  do  you?  I  should  say 
not ! " 


194  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"  But  why  on  earth  should  any  one  want  to  poison 
that  big  beautiful  dog?  "  cried  Courtney  indignantly. 
"Had  he  bitten  anybody?" 

"  Not  as  anybody  knows  of.  Henry  says  he  never 
harmed  a  living  soul.  That  dog —  " 

"  By  George !  "  exclaimed  Courtney  suddenly.  "  This 
reminds  me  of  something.  I  passed  a  couple  of  men 
last  night  down  at  the  corner  where  you  turn  up  to 
Miss  Crown's.  They  were  leaning  against  the  fence  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  road,  and  I  had  the  queerest 
sort  of  feeling  about  them.  I  felt  that  they  were  watch- 
ing me.  I  remember  turning  my  head  to  look  back  at 
them.  They  were  still  standing  there.  It  was  too  dark 
to  see  what  they  looked  like —  " 

"  Wait  a  second,"  broke  in  Charlie.  "  Here's  Bill 
Foss,  the  constable.  Tell  it  to  him,  Court." 

The  town  constable,  vastly  excited,  came  up  the 
street,  accompanied  by  two  or  three  stern-visaged 
citizens. 

"  Well,  by  thunder !  "  growled  the  officer,  wiping  his 
forehead.  "  Somebody's  been  making  a  wholesale  job 
of  it.  Dick  Hurdle's  'Jackie'  and  Bert  Little's 
*  Prince'  are  dead  as  doornails.  That  makes  three. 
Now,  who  the  hell,—  " 

"Just  a  second, — just  a  second,"  cried  A.  Lincoln 
Pollock,  elbowing  his  way  into  the  thick  of  the  new 
group.  "Let  me  get  the  facts.  You  first,  Dick. 
Where  did  you  find  your  dog's  remains?  Now,  take 
it  calm,  Dick.  Don't  cuss  like  that.  I  can't  print  a 
word  of  it,  you  know, — not  a  word.  Remember  there 
are  ladies  present,  Dick.  You've  got  to —  " 

Mr.  Hurdle  said  he  didn't  give  a  cuss  if  all  the 
women  in  town  were  present,  he  was  going  to  say  what 


SUSPICION  195 

he  thought  of  any  blankety-blank, — and  so  on  at  great 
length,  despite  the  fact  that  the  ladies  crowded  even 
a  little  closer,  evidently  reluctant  to  miss  a  word  of  his 
just  and  unbridled  blasphemy. 

The  occasion  demanded  the  sonorous  efficiency  of 
Mr.  Richard  Hurdle.  In  all  Windomville  there  was 
no  one  so  well  qualified  to  do  justice  to  the  situation 
as  he.  (Later  on,  Charlie  Webster  was  heard  to  re- 
mark that  "  as  long  as  these  dogs  had  to  be  killed,  it's 
a  great  relief  that  Dick's  was  one  of  'em,  because  he's 
got  the  best  pair  of  lungs  in  town.  He  can  expand 
his  chest  nearly  seven  inches,  and  when  he  fills  all  that 
extra  space  up  with  words  nobody  ever  even  heard  of 
before,  people  clear  over  in  Illinois  have  to  rush  out 
and  shoo  their  children  into  the  house  and  keep  'em 
there  till  it  blows  over.") 

Doctor  Smith  came  rattling  up  in  his  Ford,  hopped 
out,  and  started  to  enter  the  drug  store.  Catching  sight 
of  the  druggist  in  the  crowd,  he  stopped  to  bawl  out: 

"  Who's  been  buying  prussic  acid  of  you,  Sam  Fos- 
ter? What  do  you  mean  by  selling — " 

"  I  ain't  sold  a  grain  of  prussic  acid  in  ten  years," 
roared  Mr.  Foster.  "  Or  any  other  kind  of  poison. 
Don't  you  accuse  me  of —  " 

"Anything  new,  Doc?  Anything  new?"  cried  the 
editor  of  the  Sun,  rushing  up  to  the  doctor. 

"They  got  that  dog  of  Alix  Crown's.  I  tried  to 
save  him, — but  he  was  as  good  as  dead  when  I  got  there. 
Of  all  the  damnable  outrages —  " 

"Miss  Crown's  dog?"  cried  Courtney,  aghast. 
"  Good  God !  Why,— why,  it  will  break  her  heart !  She 
loved  that  dog !  Men !  We've  got  to  find  the  scoundrel. 
[We've  got  to  fix  him.  He  ought  to  be  strung  up.  Has 


196  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

any  one  called  Miss  Crown  up,  Doctor?  She  is  in  the 
city.  She—" 

"  Mrs.  Strong  called  her  up.  The  automobile  started 
for  town  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  ago  to  bring  her 
home." 

"  Keep  your  shirt  on,  Court,"  warned  Charlie  Web- 
ster. "  You'll  bust  a  blood  vessel.  Cool  off !  There's 
no  use  talkin'  about  getting  him.  Whoever  it  was  that 
planted  these  dog-buttons  around  town  was  slick  enough 
to  cover  up  his  tracks.  We'll  never  find  out  who  did  it. 
It's  happened  before,  and  the  result  is  always  the  same. 
Dead  dogs  tell  no  tales." 

"  But  those  two  fellows  I  saw  down  at  the  corner 
last  night—" 

"  Would  you  be  able  to  identify  them?  " 

"  No, — hang  it  all !  It  was  too  dark.  It  was  about 
half-past  nine.  Why,  earlier  in  the  evening  I  was  at 
Miss  Crown's.  I  saw  the  dog.  He  was  on  the  terrace. 
He  growled  at  me, — he  always  growled  at  me.  He 
didn't  like  me.  Mrs.  Strong  came  to  the  door  and  called 
him  into  the  house.  I  am  sure  he  was  all  right  then. 
When  is  he  supposed  to  have  got  the  poison,  Doctor?  " 

"  This  morning.  She  let  him  out  of  the  house  about 
seven  o'clock.  Paid  no  attention  to  him  till  he  came 
crawling  around  to  the  kitchen  door  some  time  after- 
ward. He  just  laid  down  and  kicked  a  few  times, — i 
that's  what  makes  me  think  it  was  prussic  acid.  It 
knocks  'em  quick." 

"  Come  on,  Charlie,"  cried  Courtney,  clutching  the 
other's  arm.  "  We  must  go  up  to  the  house.  There 
may  be  some  trace, — something  that  will  give  us  a  clue.'^ 

He  was  at  the  house  when  the  car  returned  without 
Alix.  She  had  sent  the  chauffeur  back  with  instruc- 


SUSPICION  197 

tions  to  bury  the  dog.  She  could  not  bear  looking  at 
him.  She  wanted  it  to  be  all  over  with  before  she  came 
home. 

"  I  don't  blame  her,"  said  Charlie  soberly.  "  Shows 
how  much  she  thought  of  Sergeant  when  she's  willing 
to  pay  five  hundred  dollars  reward  for  the  capture  of 
the  man  or  men  who  poisoned  him." 

"Where  did  you  hear  that?"  demanded  Courtney, 
surprised. 

"  Ed  Stevens  says  she  told  him  to  authorize  Bill 
Foss  to  have  reward  notices  struck  off  over  at  the  Sun 
office,  offering  five  hundred  cash.  She  always  said  that 
'dog  was  the  best  friend  she  had  on  earth." 

"But  five  hundred  dollars!  Why,  good  Lord,  you 
can  buy  a  dozen  police  dogs  for  that  amount  of — " 

"  You  couldn't  have  bought  Sergeant  for  ten  times 
five  hundred,"  interrupted  Charlie.  "  You  see,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  he  didn't  actually  belong  to  Alix." 

"  You  must  be  crazy.  She  has  had  him  since  he  was 
a  puppy  three  months  old." 

"  Sure.  But,  all  the  same,  he  didn't  belong  to  her. 
He  belonged  to  David  Strong.  Davy  got  him  in  France 
in  the  spring  of  1918  and  sent  him  clear  over  here  for 
his  mother  to  take  care  of  for  him." 

Courtney  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "  It's  strange 
Miss  Crown  never  told  me  this,"  he  said,  biting  his  lip. 

"  Well,"  said  Charlie  quaintly,  "  far  as  that  goes,  I 
don't  suppose  it  ever  occurred  to  her  to  tell  Sergeant 
he  belonged  to  somebody  else,  but  even  if  she  had  I  don't 
reckon  it  would  have  made  a  darn'  bit  of  difference  to 
him.  He  would  have  gone  on  loving  her,  just  the  same, 
! — and  workin'  twenty-four  hours  a  day  for  her,  Sun- 
clays  and  holidays  included.  A  dog  don't  care  who  he 


198  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

belongs  to,  Court,  but  he's  mighty  darned  particular 
about  who  belongs  to  him." 

"  I  can't  understand  why  he  never  seemed  to  like  me," 
mused  Courtney. 

"Well,  maybe,"  began  Charlie  soberly,  " — maybe, 
after  all,  he  did  sort  of  know  that  he  was  Davy  Strong's 
dog." 

II 

For  three  days  Windomville  talked  of  nothing  but 
the  "  dog  murders."  The  Sun  came  out  on  Thursday 
with  a  long  and  graphic  account  of  the  mysterious  af- 
fairs of  Monday  night,  including  the  views  and  the- 
ories of  well-known  citizens.  It  also  took  occasion  to 
"lambast"  Constable  Foss  with  great  severity.  The 
Constable,  being  a  Republican,  (and  not  a  subscriber 
to  the  Sun),  was  described  as  about  the  most  incom- 
petent official  Windomville  had  ever  known,  and  that 
it  would  have  been  quite  possible  for  the  miscreant  or 
miscreants  to  have  poisoned  every  dog  in  town,  in  broad 
daylight,  accompanied  by  a  brass  band,  without  Bill 
ever  "  getting  onto  it." 

It  goes  without  saying  that  everybody  in  town  was 
stimulated  to  prodigious  activity  by  the  reward  offered 
by  Miss  Crown.  Notices  were  stuck  up  in  the  postoffice 
and  on  all  the  telephone  poles.  A  great  many  em- 
barrassing incidents  resulted,  and  three  fist-fights  of 
considerable  violence  occurred, — for  the  gentlemen  ac- 
cused of  the  crimes  took  drastic  and  specific  means  of 
establishing  complete  and  satisfactory  alibis. 

Courtney  Thane  chafed  under  the  prolonged  absence 
of  Alix  Crown.  Valuable  time  was  being  wasted.  He 


SUSPICION  199 

had  assisted  at  the  burial  of  Sergeant,  and  had  shed 
tears  with  Mrs.  Strong  while  Ed  Stevens,  the  chauffeur, 
was  filling  in  the  grave  up  back  of  the  orchard;  and 
he  had  done  further  homage  to  the  dead  by  planting 
a  small  American  flag  at  the  head  of  the  mound  and, — 
as  an  afterthought, — the  flag  of  Belgium  at  the  foot. 

He  felt  that  he  had  done  very  well  by  a  dog  that 
would  have  torn  him  to  pieces  if  encouraged  by  the 
merest  whisper  of  the  words  "  sic  'im ! " 

Alix  returned  late  on  Friday  afternoon.  He  had  a 
box  of  roses,  ordered  from  the  city  for  him  by  Miss 
Flora  Grady,  awaiting  her,  and  with  them  a  tender 
little  note  of  sympathy. 

She  sat  for  a  long  time  with  Mrs.  Strong.  Her  dark 
eyes  softened  and  filled  with  tears  as  David's  mother 
gently  stroked  her  hair  and  sought  by  words  to  con- 
vince her  that  David  would  understand. 

"  It  wasn't  your  fault,  Alix  darling,"  she  protested. 
"  David  won't  mind, — not  in  the  least.  Sergeant  didn't 
really  mean  anything  to  him.  He  was  yours  more  than 
he  was  David's.  Don't  you  worry  about  David's  feel- 
ings, dear.  He —  " 

"  You  don't  understand,  Aunt  Nancy, — you  don't 
understand  at  all,"  Alix  repeated  over  and  over  again 
in  her  distress. 

"  You're  just  worrying  yourself  sick  over  it,"  said 
the  older  woman.  "  Why,  you  look  all  tuckered  out, 
child, — I  was  shocked  when  you  first  came  in.  Now, 
don't  be  foolish,  dear.  I  tell  you  it  will  be  all  right 
with  David.  I  wrote  him  all  about  it,  and — what's  that 
you  are  saying?  " 

•  "  You  don't  suppose  he  will  think  I — think  I  did  it, 
Aunt  Nancy?  "  Alix  whispered  bleakly. 


200  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"  Think  you — for  the  land's  sake,  Alix,  what  on  eartK 
are  you  saying?  Are  you  stark,  staring  crazy?  You 
come  right  upstairs  and  get  into  bed  this  minute.  My 
land,  I — I  believe  you're  going  to  be  sick.  You've  got 
the  queerest  look  in  your  eyes.  Come  on,  now,  deary, 
and—" 

"  I  am  sick, — just  sick  with  unhappiness,  Aunt 
Nancy,"  sobbed  the  girl.  "  You  don't  know, — you 
don't  understand.  Oh,  he  couldn't  believe  I  would  do- 
such  a  thing  as  that!  He  couldn't  think  me  so  cruel> 
and  wicked  and — and  spiteful." 

"Now,  listen  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Strong  sternly. 
"  What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this?  What  has  happened 
between  you  and  David  that  makes  you  talk  like  this? 
Tell  me, — tell  me  this  minute,  Alix  Crown." 

"  Hasn't  he  told  you — written  you  about  anything!  '* 
cried  the  girl. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  are  driving  at,  Alix,  but 
whatever  it  is  I  know  David  hasn't  got  anything  against 
you  that  would  make  you  say  such  things  as  you've 
just  been  saying."  She  hesitated  a  moment  and  then 
laid  her  hand  on  Alix's  head.  "I've  been  wondering 
a  whole  lot  of  late,  Alix.  Have  you  and  David  had  a — •- 
a  misunderstanding?  " 

«  We — we  don't  like  each  other  as — as  we  used  to, 
Aunt  Nancy,"  said  the  girl,  lifting  her  head  almost  de- 
fiantly to  look  David's  mother  full  in  the  eyes. 

"Is  it  David's  fault?"  asked  Mrs.  Strong  after  a 
moment. 

"I — I  wish  you  wouldn't  ask  me  anything  more 
about  it.  At  least,  not  now." 

"Is  it  David's  fault?"  demanded  the  other  once 
more,  insistently. 


SUSPICION  201 

"  I  will  say  this  much ;  it  isn't  my  fault,"  replied 
Alix  stiffly. 

Mrs.  Strong  smiled, — a  tender,  loving  smile. 

"  I  think  I  could  straighten  everything  out  if  David 
were  only  here,"  she  said.  "  I  would  take  you  both 
across  my  knee  and  give  you  a  good  sound  spanking.  It 
used  to  work  beautifully  when  you  were  children, — and 
I  think  it  would  work  now.  I — I  wonder  if  it  would 
help  matters  any  if  I  were  to  spank —  No,  I'm  sure  it 
wouldn't.  To  do  any  good  at  all  David  would  have 
to  be  here  to  see  me  spanking  you  and  to  beg  me  to  let 
you  off  and  give  it  to  him  just  twice  as  hard." 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Nancy,"  cried  Alix  eagerly,  "  if  you  only 
would!  How  I  wish  I  were  a  little  girl  again!  And 
David  a  little  boy  1 " 

Then  she  fled  from  the  room.  Nancy  Strong  put  her 
hand  over  her  eyes  and  sighed. 

"  I  wish  David  were  here,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  If 
he  were  only  here  today." 

During  dinner  that  evening  Alix  was  strangely  re- 
pressed. It  was  plain  to  Mrs.  Strong  that  she  was 
inwardly  agitated.  After  they  left  the  table  she  be- 
came visibly  nervous.  She  was  "  fidgety,"  to  speak  the 
thought  of  her  perplexed  companion.  Time  and  again 
she  started  and  appeared  to  be  listening  intently,  and 
always  there  was  a  queer  little  expression  in  her  eyes 
as  of  expectancy.  Once  or  twice  Mrs.  Strong  surprised 
a  flash  of  anxiety, — aye,  even  fear, — in  them. 

"  You  haven't  read  your  letters  yet,  Alix,"  she  said 
at  last,  seeking  for  some  means  to  divert  the  girl's 
thoughts.  "  There  is  quite  a  pile  of  them  there  on  the 
table." 

"  I  don't  feel  like  reading  letters  tonight,"  said  Alix. 


202  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"  They  can  wait  till  tomorrow."  She  arose,  however, 
and  hurriedly  ran  through  the  pile.  "  I  wrote  to  David 
before  dinner,  Aunt  Nancy,"  she  said  suddenly.  "  A 
long  letter  about  Sergeant's  death.  I  wanted  him  to 
know  how  miserably  I  feel  about  it." 

"  Bless  your  heart,  he'll  know  that  without  your  tell- 
ing him,  child.  I  am  glad  you  wrote  to  him,  however." 

Alix  came  to  a  letter  addressed  in  an  unfamiliar 
hand, — a  bold,  masculine  scrawl.  The  postmark  was 
Chicago.  She  tore  it  open.  It  began  with  "Dear 
Alix."  She  quickly  turned  to  the  last  page.  It  was 
signed  "  Addison  Blythe."  A  "  thank  you  "  letter,  of 
course. 

Her  back  was  to  Mrs.  Strong  as  she  stood  beside  the 
table,  bending  slightly  forward  to  get  the  full  light 
from  the  library  lamp.  She  read  the  letter  through  to 
the  end ;  then  she  walked  over  to  the  fireplace  and  threw 
it  into  the  flames.  Her  face  had  lost  every  vestige  of 
colour : 


DEAR  ALIX:  [it  began]  You  will  no  doubt  throw  this 
letter  into  the  fire  the  instant  you  have  finished  reading  it, 
and  you  will  hate  me  for  having  written  it.  Nevertheless, 
I  am  doing  so  because  I  think  it  is  my  duty.  I  offer  no 
apology.  I  only  ask  you  to  believe  that  my  intentions  are 
good.  It  is  best  to  come  straight  to  the  point.  I  have 
talked  it  all  over  with  Mary  and  she  approves  of  this  let- 
t-T.  What  I  am  about  to  sav  still  requires  official  con- 
firmation. I  do  not  speak  with  authority,  you  must  under- 
stand. I  am  merely  giving  you  certain  bits  of  information 
I  have  obtained  from  men  who  were  in  France  in  1915  and 
1916.  It  rests  with  you  to  believe  or  disbelieve.  In  any 
case,  if  you  are  wise,  you  will  at  least  take  the  trouble  to 
investigate.  I  am  at  your  service.  If  I  can  help  you  in 


SUSPICION  203 

any  way,  please  call  upon  me.  If  you  desire  it,  I  will 
provide  you  with  the  names  of  at  least  three  men  who  were 
in  Ambulance,  all  of  whom  have  answered  my  letters  of 
inquiry.  One  of  these  men  met  Courtney  Thane  in  Paris 
in  November,  1915.  He  was  living  at  the  Hotel  Chatham 
with  his  mother.  She  had  a  husband  up  at  the  front, 
fighting  with  the  French.  This  husband  was  a  count  or 
something  of  the  sort  and  a  good  many  years  her  junior. 
My  informant  writes  me  that  young  Thane,  who  drank  a 
great  deal  and  talked  quite  freely  of  family  affairs,  told 
him  that  his  mother  had  married  this  young  Frenchman  a 
few  months  before  the  war  broke  out  and  went  to  Paris 
to  live  with  him.  He  went  so  far  as  to  say  that  the 
Frenchman  married  her  for  her  money  and  he  hoped  the 
Germans  would  make  a  widow  of  her  again  before  it  was 
too  late.  According  to  this  chap,  Thane  had  also  been  in 
Paris  since  the  beginning  of  the  war.  He  spent  money  like 
a  drunken  sailor  and  touched  nothing  but  the  high  spots. 
The  second  or  third  time  he  met  him,  Thane  said  he  would 
like  to  get  into  the  Ambulance.  His  mother,  however,  was 
bitterly  opposed  to  his  joining  up.  The  last  time  he  saw 
him,  he  had  on  an  Ambulance  uniform  and  was  as  drunk 
as  a  lord  in  one  of  the  cafes.  My  friend  had  it  straight 
from  fellows  out  at  Neuilly  that  Thane  hadn't  worn  the 
uniform  a  week  before  it  was  taken  away  from  him  and  he 
was  kicked  out  of  the  service  in  disgrace. 

One  of  the  other  chaps  has  written  me,  saying  that  he 
was  at  the  base  hospital  when  Thane  was  stripped  of  his 
uniform.  He  was  not  a  witness  to  this,  but  he  heard  other 
fellows  and  the  nurses  talking  about  it.  Not  only  was  his 
uniform  taken  away,  but  he  was  ordered  to  get  out  of  Paris 
at  once.  They  heard  afterward  that  he  went  to  Madrid 
with  his  mother.  He  was  never  at  Pont-a-Mousson.  It  is 
obvious  that  he  was  not  in  the  Vosges  sector,  in  view  of  the 
fact  that  he  lasted  less  than  a  week  in  the  Ambulance,  and 
did  a  vast  amount  of  carousing  in  a  uniform  that  I  revere. 


204  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

It  is  up  to  you,  Alix.  The  records  of  the  American 
Ambulance  are  available.  You  can  obtain  all  the  informa- 
tion you  desire,  and  I  beg  of  you  to  get  into  communication 
with  Mr.  Hereford  or  Mr.  Andrew  or  some  other  official  at 
once.  I  append  below  the  addresses  of  several  persons  to 
whom  you  may  write.  They  were  high  in  authority.  They 
will  give  you  facts. 

I  was  convinced  that  Thane  was  not  on  the  level  when  I 
met  him  that  day.  His  stories  did  not  jibe.  I  said  nothing 
to  you  at  the  time,  because  I  could  not  be  sure  of  my  ground. 
I  think  I  am  reasonably  sure  now. 

I  may  add  that  I  have  written  to  Col.  Andrew  and 
others  on  my  own  hook.  If  you  care  to  see  their  replies, 
when  I  get  them,  I  shall  send  them  to  you.  All  you  have 
to  do  is  to  say  the  word.  In  any  case,  I  ask  you  to  believe 
that  my  devotion  and  Mary's  deep  and  honest  love  are  the 
excuse  for  this  letter,  which  you  may  show  to  Mr.  Thane 
if  you  see  fit.  I  have  no  right  to  question  his  statement 
that  he  served  in  the  Royal  Air  Force.  I  know  nothing 
to  the  contrary.  I  speak  only  of  the  Ambulance.  I  am, 
dear  Alix, 

Yours  devotedly, 

ADDISON  BLYTHE. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE    FACE    AT    THE    WINDOW 

MRS.    STRONG,    observing   her    pallor,    arose 
quickly  and  went  to  Alix's  side. 
"  What  is  it,  dear?  "  she  cried.    «  What  was 
in  that  letter?    You  are  as  white  as  a  ghost."    Receiv- 
ing for  answer  a  pitiful  little  smile  that  was  not  so 
much  a  smile  as  a  grimace  of  pain,  she  placed  her  hand 
on  the  girl's  shoulder.     "  Why  did  you  destroy  it?  " 

"  I — I  don't  know,"  murmured  Alix  through  set, 
rigid  lips. 

"  Yes,  you  do  know,"  said  the  other  firmly. 

Alix  looked  dumbly  into  her  old  friend's  eyes  for  a 
moment,  and  then  her  honest  heart  spoke :  "  I  destroyed 
it,  Aunt  Nancy,  because  I  was  afraid  to  read  it  again. 
It  was  from  Addison  Blythe.  He  has  been  making  in- 
quiries concerning  Courtney  Thane.  In  that  letter  he 
said  things  which,  if  true,  make  Courtney  out  to  be  a 
most — a  most  unworthy  person." 

She  turned  to  look  into  the  fire,  her  eyes  narrowing. 
The  black,  flaky  remnants  of  the  letter  were  still  flut- 
tering on  the  hearth.  As  she  watched,  the  draft  caught 
them  and  sent  them  swirling  up  the  chimney. 

A  high  wind  was  blowing  outside.  It  whistled  mourn- 
fully around  the  corners  of  the  house.  Somewhere  on, 
the  floor  above  a  door,  buffeted  by  the  wind  from  an, 
open  window,  beat  a  slow  and  muffled  measure  against 
its  frame. 

David's  mother  saw  the  colour  slowly  return  to  her 
205 


206  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

companion's  face.  She  waited.  Something  akin  to  joy 
possessed  her.  She  was  afraid  to  speak  for  fear  that 
her  voice  would  betray  her.  At  last  she  said: 

«  We  know  nothing  about  Mr.  Thane  except  what 
he  has  told  us,  Alix." 

The  girl  looked  searchingly  into  her  eyes. 

«  You  do  not  like  him,  Aunt  Nancy.     I  have  felt  ] 
from  the  beginning.     Is  it  because  you  are  David's 
mother?  " 

Mrs.  Strong  started.  The  direct  question  had  struck 
home.  She  was  confused. 

«  \vhy, — Alix,— I— what  a  silly  thing  to  ask.  What 
has  David  to  do  with  it?" 

Alix  was  still  looking  at  her,  broodingly.  "Why 
don't  you  like  him,  Aunt  Nancy?  " 

"  Have  I  ever  said  I  didn't  like  him?  " 

"  No.  But  I  know.  I  know  that  Charlie  Webster  does 
not  like  him.  I  knew  that  Addison  did  not  like  him." 

Mrs.  Strong  could  not  resist  the  impulse  to  add: 
"  And  Sergeant  did  not  like  him." 

"And  you  think  that  convicts  him?"  said  the  girl, 
half  ironically. 

"  I  have  a  good  deal  of  faith  in  dogs,"  muttered  Mrs. 
Strong,  flushing. 

Alix's  gaze  went  to  the  huge  vase  of  roses  on  the 
table.  Then  she  turned  quickly  to  look  once  more  into 
her  companion's  eyes. 

"You  believe  that  Courtney  poisoned  him,  don't 
you?" 

"  I  have  no  more  reason  for  believing  it  than  you 
have,  Alix,"  returned  Mrs.  Strong  calmly. 

"Why,— why  do  you  say  that?"  cried  the  girl, 
startled. 


THE  FACE  AT  THE  WINDOW          207 

"  Because  you  would  not  have  asked  the  question  if 
you  hadn't  been — well,  wondering  a  little  yourself, 
Alix." 

"  Oh, — I  don't  want  to  think  it,"  cried  Alix  miser- 
ably. "  I  don't  want  to  think  of  it ! " 

"  No  more  do  I  want  to  think  it.  Listen  to  me,  Alix. 
I  confess  that  I  do  not  like  this  man.  I  have  no  way 
of  explaining  my  feeling  toward  him.  He  has  always 
been  polite  and  agreeable  to  me.  He  has  never  done 
a  thing  that  I  can  call  to  mind  that  would  set  me 
against  him.  Maybe  it's  because  he  is  not  of  my  world, 
because  he  comes  from  a  big  city,  because  deep  in  his 
heart  he  probably  looks  down  on  us  Hoosiers.  I  will 
go  farther,  Alix,  and  say  that  I  do  not  trust  him.  That 
is  a  nasty  thing  to  say.  It  is  none  of  my  business,  but 
I — I  wish  you  did  not  like  him  so  well,  Alix." 

'*  It  would  appear  that  my  friends  are  taking  more 
than  an  ordinary  interest  in  my  welfare,"  said  Alix 
slowly,  and  with  some  bitterness.  "  Is  it  possible  that 
you  all  believe  me  incapable  of  taking  care  of  myself?  " 

"  Smarter  women  than  you,  Alix  Crown,  have  been 
fooled  by  men,"  said  the  other  sententiously.  "  Oh,  I 
don't  mean  the  way  you  think,  my  child, — so  don't 
glare  at  me  like  that.  I  know  you  can  take  care  of 
yourself  that  way, — but  how  about  falling  in  love? 
And  getting  married?  And  finding  out  afterward  that 
roses  don't  grow  on  cactus  plants?  That's  how  women 
are  fooled, — and  you're  no  different  from  the  rest  of 
us." 

"  I  think, — I  am  quite  sure  that  he  is  in  love  with 
me,  Aunt  Nancy,"  said  Alix,  somewhat  irrelevantly. 
There  was  no  sign  of  gladness,  however,  nor  of  triumph, 
in  her  dark,  brooding  eyes. 


208  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"  That's  easy  to  understand.  The  point  is,  Alix,-^ 
are  you  in  love  with  him?" 

Alix  did  not  answer  at  once.  The  little  frown  in  her 
eyes  deepened. 

"  I  don't  think  so,  Aunt  Nancy,"  she  said  at  last. 
"  I  don't  believe  it  is  love.  That  is  what  troubles  me 
so.  It  is  something  I  cannot  understand.  I  don't 
know  what  has  come  over  me.  I  will  be  honest  with  you, 
— and  with  myself.  I  do  not  really  trust  him.  I  don't 
believe  he  is  all  that  he  claims  to  be.  And  yet, — - 
and  yet,  Aunt  Nancy,  I, — I — " 

"  Don't  try  to  tell  me,"  broke  in  the  older  woman 
gently.  "  My  only  sister  thought  she  was  in  love  with 
Terry  Moore,  a  fellow  who  had  been  in  the  peniten- 
tiary once  for  stealing,  and  was  a  drunkard,  8  gam- 
bler, and  a  bad  man  with  women,  and  all  that.  She  was 
crazy  about  him.  She  ran  off  with  him  and  got  mar- 
ried. She  never  was  in  love  with  him,  Alix.  She  hated 
him  after  a  few  weeks.  He  just  cast  some  kind  of 
a  spell  over  her — not  a  mental  spell,  you  may,  be  sure. 
It  was  something  physical.  He  was  slick  and  smart 
and  good  looking,  and  he  just  made  up  his  mind  to 
get  her.  A  man  can  be  awful  nice  when  he  has  once 
set  his  heart  on  getting  a  girl, — and  that's  what  fools 
'em,  great  and  small.  All  the  mistakes  are  not  made 
by  ignorant,  scatter-brained  girls,  my  dear.  My  father 
used  to  say  that  the  more  sense  a  woman  has,  the  more 
likely  she  is  to  do  something  foolish.  Now,  Alix  dear, 
I  know  just  how  it  is  with  you.  Courtney  Thane  has 
cast  a  spell  over  you.  I  believe  in  spells,  same  as  the 
old  New  Englander  used  to  believe  in  witchcraft.  You 
don't  love  him,  you  don't  actually  believe  in  him.  You 


THE  FACE  AT  THE  WINDOW          209 

— you  are  sort  of  like  a  bird  that  is  being  charmed  by 
a  snake.  It  knows  it  ought  to  fly  away  and  yet  it  can't, 
because  it's  so  interested  in  what  the  snake  is  going  to 
do  next.  Thane  is  attractive.  He  is,  far  as  I  know, 
a  gentleman.  At  any  rate,  he  would  pass  for  one,  and 
that's  about  all  you  can  expect  in  these  days.  The 
thought  has  entered  both  our  minds  that  he  put  Ser- 
geant out  of  the  way.  Well,  my  dear,  I  don't  believe 
either  of  us  would  ever  dream  of  connecting  him  with 
it  if  there  wasn't  something  back  in  our  minds  that  has 
been  asking  questions  of  us  ever  since  he  came  here. 
You  say  you  were  afraid  to  read  Mr.  Blythe's  letter 
again.  Does  that  mean  you  are  afraid  everything  he 
says  is  true?  " 

"  Oh,  I  can't  believe  it, — I  must  not  allow  myself  to 
even  think  it,"  cried  the  girl.  "  Why,  if  what  Addi- 
son  says  is  true,  Courtney  Thane  is  not  fit  to —  There 
must  be  some  mistake,  Aunt  Nancy.  There  were  two 
men  of  the  same  name.  I  will  not  believe  it!  " 

The  two  tall  women  stood  tense  and  rigid,  side  by 
side,  their  backs  to  the  fire,  gazing  straight  before  them 
down  the  lamp-lit  room. 

"  Has  Addison  Blythe  any  reason  for  lying  to  you, 
Alix?  "  asked  the  elder  quietly. 

"  Of  course  not,"  Alix  answered  impatiently.  u  There 
is  some  mistake,  that's  all." 

"  Do  you  mind  telling  me  what  he  says?  " 

"  Mr.  Thane  is  coming  to  see  me  tonight,"  said  the 
girl,  uneasily.  "  He  may  come  at  any  moment  now. 
What  time  is  it?" 

"  Ten  minutes  of  eight.  He  never  comes  before  half- 
past."  She  waited  a  moment,  and  then  went  on  de- 


210  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

liberately:  "I  always  had  an  idea  it  was  because  he 
wanted  to  be  sure  Sergeant  was  in  the  house  and  not 
out  in  the  yard." 

Alix  closed  her  eyes  for  a  second  or  two,  as  if  by 
doing  so  it  were  possible  to  shut  out  the  same  thought 
that  had  floated  through  Mrs.  Strong's  mind. 

"  But  he  need  not  be  afraid  of  Sergeant  now,"  she 
said,  with  a  little  tremor  in  her  voice.  "  He  will  come 
earlier  tonight."  The  unintentional  sarcasm  did  not 
escape  Mrs.  Strong.  "Wait  till  tomorrow,  Aunt 
Nancy.  Then  I  may  tell  you." 

"  You  are  trembling,  dear.  I  wish  you  would  let 
me  make  your  excuses  to  him  when  he  comes.  Don't 
see  him  tonight.  Let  me  tell  him — " 

Alix  turned  squarely  and  faced  her.  There  was  a 
harassed,  haunted  expression  in  her  eyes, — and  yet 
there  was  defiance. 

"  I  stayed  away  five  days,"  she  said  huskily.  "  For 
five  days  I  kept  away  from  him.  Then  I — I  gave  up. 
I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer.  I  had  to  come  home. 
Now,  you  have  the  truth.  I  just  simply  had  to  see 
him,  Aunt  Nancy, — I  just  liad  to." 

"  Then, — then  it  is  a  spell,"  cried  the  other,  dismay 
in  her  voice.  "  You  are  not  yourself,  Alix.  This  is  not 
you  who  say  these  things." 

"Oh,  yes,  it  is!"  cried  the  girl  recklessly.  "I 
wanted  to  come  home.  I  wanted  to  see  him.  I  don't 
love  him,  but  I  wanted  to  be  with  him.  I  don't  trust 
him,  but  here  I  am.  Now  you  have  it  all !  I  want  to 
see  him ! " 

Mrs.  Strong  was  looking  past  her.  She  stared  hard 
at  the  window  in  the  far  end  of  the  room,  her  eyes 
narrowed,  her  chin  thrust  slightly  forward.  Then  sud- 


THE  FACE  AT  THE  WINDOW          211 

denly  she  clutched  the  girl's  arm,  her  eyes  now  wide- 
spread with  alarm. 

"  Look !  "  she  whispered  shrilly,  pointing. 

The  flush  faded  from  Alix's  face ;  the  reckless,  defiant 
light  left  her  eyes,  and  in  its  place  came  fear. 

II 

Plainly  outlined  in  the  window  was  the  face  of  a 
masked  man.  A  narrow  black  mask,  through  which  a 
pair  of  eyes  gleamed  brightly. 

The  exposed  lower  portion  of  the  face,  save  for  the 
heavily  bearded  upper  lip,  was  ghastly  white.  Brief  as 
this  glimpse  was,  they  were  able  to  see  that  he  wore  a 
cap,  pulled  well  down  over  his  forehead. 

For  a  few  seconds  the  two  women  stood  as  if  pet- 
rified, their  eyes  wide  and  staring,  their  hearts  cold, 
their  tongues  paralyzed.  They  were  gazing  straight 
into  his  shining  eyes.  Suddenly  he  turned  his  head 
for  a  quick,  startled  glance  over  his  shoulder.  The  next 
instant  he  was  gone,  vanishing  in  the  blackness  that 
hung  behind  him  like  the  magician's  curtain  in  a  thea- 
tre. They  heard  rapid  footsteps  on  the  veranda,  the 
crash  of  a  chair  overturned,  then  a  loud  shout,  and 
again  the  sound  of  flying  footsteps  across  the  brick- 
paved  terrace.  Another  shout,  and  still  another,  far- 
ther away. 

"  Quick !  "  screamed  Alix,  the  first  to  recover  her 
voice.  "  The  telephone!  Call  the  drug  store.  Bill  Foss 
is  there." 

She  ran  swiftly  out  into  the  hall. 

"  Come  back !  "  cried  Mrs.  Strong.  "  What  are  you 
doing?  Don't  open  that  door !  He's  got  a  pistol, 
Alix!" 


212  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

Even  as  she  spoke,  the  report  of  a  pistol  shot  came 
to  their  ears.  As  Alix  stopped  short,  her  hand  out- 
stretched to  clutch  the  door  knob,  a  second  report  came. 

"  Oh,  my  God ! "  she  cried.  "  He  has  killed  Court- 
ney !  He  has  shot  Courtney !  " 

By  this  time,  her  companion  had  reached  her  side. 
She  dragged  her  back  from  the  door. 

"Killed  Courtney?  What's  the  matter  with  you? 
Why  do  you  say  he  has  killed — " 

"Don't  you  see — can't  you  understand?  It  was 
Courtney  who  surprised  him.  That's  why  he  ran.  He 
shot, — oh,  let  go  of  me !  Let  go  of  me,  I  say !  " 

"I'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  cried  Mrs.  Strong. 
"  Do  you  want  to  get  shot  ?  Come  away  from  this 
door!" 

A  door  slammed  against  the  wall  at  the  back  of  the 
house.  Some  one  came  running  through  the  dining- 
room.  First  the  cook,  then  the  little  waitress,  dashed 
into  the  hall. 

"  Wha-what  is  it?  What's  the  matter?  "  shouted  the 
former.  "  What  was  that  shootin' — " 

"  Where  is  Stevens  ?  "  demanded  Mrs.  Strong,  as  she 
fairly  pushed  Alix  into  the  living-room.  "  Call  him ! 
Isn't  he  out  there  in — " 

"  He  went  out, — half  hour  ago, — out,"  stuttered  the 
waitress.  "Who's  been— what's  happened  to  Miss 
Alix?" 

"Nothing!  Go  and  yell  for  Ed!  Thieves!  On  the 
porch.  Don't  stand  there,  Hilda.  Go  out  back  and 
scream ! " 

"Oh,  my  God!  Ed's  killed!  He's  been  shot!  My 
husband's  been  shot ! "  It  was  the  cook  who  sent  this 
lamentation  to  the  very  roof  of  the  house. 


THE  FACE  AT  THE  WINDOW          213 

Mrs.  Strong  whispered  fiercely  in  Alix's  ear:  "  That's 
it!  Ed  is  the  one  who  surprised  him.  Courtney  noth- 
ing! Now,  you  stay  here!  I'll  telephone.  Don't  you 
dare  go  outside,  Alix  Crown.  A  stray  bullet — " 

Far  away  sounded  the  third  shot,  muffled  by  dis- 
tance and  the  shriek  of  the  wind.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Strong  was  off  somewhere  trying  to  telephone. 
Shrill  voices,  out  back,  were  screaming.  Alix  stood 
alone  in  the  middle  of  the  long  room,  staring  at  the 
window  in  which  the  sinister  face  had  appeared.  She 
had  not  moved  in  what  seemed  to  be  an  age.  A  strange, 
incredible  thing  was  creeping  through  her  mind, — a 
thought  that  was  not  a  part  of  her,  something  that 
seemed  to  shape  itself  outside  of  her  brain  and  force 
its  way  in  to  crowd  out  the  fear  and  anxiety  that  had 
gripped  her  but  a  few  short  moments  before. 

What  would  it  mean  to  her  if  Courtney  Thane  were 
dead  out  there  in  the  night? 

It  was  not  the  question  but  the  answer  that  fixed 
itself  in  her  mind.  She  was  unconscious  of  the  one, 
but  vividly  aware  of  the  other.  His  death  would  mean 
— emancipation !  For  one  brief  instant  she  actually 
longed  for  the  word  that  he  was  dead!  The  reaction 
was  swift,  overwhelming. 

"  God !  "  she  gasped,  shutting  her  eyes  and  clench- 
ing her  hands  in  an  ecstasy  of  revulsion.  "  What  a 
beast, — what  a  horrible  beast  I  am !  What  a  coward !  " 

Her  knees  trembled ;  an  icy  perspiration  seemed  to 
start  out  all  over  her  body.  She  had  wished  him  dead ! 
She  had  grasped  at  that  as  the  solution!  Her  heart 
had  leaped  joyously!  It  was  as  if  some  great  weight 
suddenly  had  been  lifted  from  it.  Now  she  was  numb 
with  horror.  What  devilish  power  had  taken  posses- 


214  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

sion  of  her  in  that  brief,  soul-destroying  instant?  She 
shuddered.  She  was  afraid  to  open  her  eyes.  She 
reached  out  with  her  hand  for  the  support  of  the  table. 
She  had  longed  for  some  one  to  come  and  tell  her 
that  he  was  dead ! 

Some  one  was  pounding  on  the  outer  door.  She  had 
a  dim,  vague  impression  that  this  pounding  had  been 
going  on  for  some  time.  A  sort  of  paralysis  benumbed 
her  sensibilities.  Her  eyes  were  now  wide  open,  star- 
ing. Had  her  wish  come  true?  Was  some  one  come 
to  tell  her  that  her  horrible  wish  had  come  true?  Sud- 
denly the  fetters  fell  away.  She  rushed  frantically  to 
the  door  and  turned  the  knob.  The  driving  wind  flung 
it  open  with  a  force  that  almost  swept  her  off  her  feet. 

Thane  stood  on  the  threshold,  hatless,  panting.  The 
light  from  the  hall,  falling  upon  his  face,  revealed  a 
long  red  stain  that  ran  from  temple  to  chin.  As  she 
drew  back,  alarmed,  he  staggered  into  the  hall,  limping 
painfully,  and  pushed  the  door  shut  behind  him. 

"  Oh !  "  she  gasped. 

He  shot  a  swift,  searching  glance  down  the  hall  and 
into  the  living-room.  Then  he  held  out  his  arms  to 
her.  She  was  gazing  spell-bound  into  his  eager,  shin- 
ing eyes.  He  waited.  She  came  to  him  as  if  drawn 
by  some  overpowering  magnet.  His  arms  closed  about 
her.  .  .  .  She  was  crushed  against  his  body,  she 
seemed  a  part  of  him.  His  arms  were  like  smothering 
coils  that  pressed  the  life  out  of  her;  his  hungry  lips 
were  fastened  upon  hers,  hot  and  lustful. 

Presently  she  began  to  struggle.     Shame,— a  vast, 

sickening  shame,— possessed  her.     She  was   conscious 

the  wild,  increasing  lust  that  mastered  him.     She 

tried  to  tear  herself  from  contact  with  his  body,  as 


THE  FACE  AT  THE  WINDOW          215 

from  something  base,  unclean,  revolting.  His  kisses 
held  her.  She  was  powerless  to  resist  the  passion  that 
swept  over  her.  Once  more  she  surrendered, — and  then 
came  the  shame,  the  overwhelming  shame.  She  was  de- 
based, defiled !  She  put  her  hand  to  his  face  and  pushed 
frantically  to  release  herself  from  those  consuming, 
unholy  lips. 

Suddenly  he  freed  her,  and  sprang  back,  panting  but 
triumphant.  She  heard  him  whisper,  hoarsely,  rap- 
turously : 

"God!" 

Some  one  was  coming.  He  had  caught  the  sound  of 
footsteps, — somewhere.  Alix  sank  breathless,  rigid, 
almost  fainting,  upon  the  hall-seat. 

"  Darling  !  "  he  whispered  passionately.  She  half 
arose,  caught  once  more  by  the  irresistible  spell  that 
had  first  swept  her  into  his  embrace.  He  shook  his 
head.  Then  she  heard  him  speak.  He  was  looking  past 
her. 

"  I'm  all  right,  Mrs.  Strong.  Don't  mind  me.  Tele- 
phone for  help." 

"  I  have  telephoned,"  cried  Mrs.  Strong,  coming  to- 
ward them  quickly.  "  Help  is  coming.  Good  heavens ! 
You  are  bleeding !  Were  you  hit  ?  " 


III 

The  question  aroused  Alix.  She  was  aware  of  some- 
thing wet  and  sticky  on  the  palm  of  her  hand.  She 
looked.  It  was  covered  with  blood.  Then  she  remem- 
bered putting  her  hand  against  his  cheek.  As  if  fas- 
cinated she  stared  for  a  second  or  two  before  her  wits 
returned.  Mrs.  Strong  must  not  see  that  bloody  hand. 


216  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

She  would  know!  Guiltily  she  clenched  her  fingers 
again  and  thrust  her  hand  behind  her  back.  She  shud- 
dered at  the  feel  of  the  moist,  sticky  substance,  and 
turned  suddenly  sick.  Her  one  thought  was  to  get  to 
her  room  where  she  could  wash  away  the  tell-tale  evi- 
dence. Again  she  heard  him  speaking,  and  hung  on 

his  words.  . 

«  Nothing  but  a  scratch.  I  fell  while  chasing  him. 
He  got  the  start  of  me.  My  overcoat  bothered  me. 
I  got  it  off,  but  not  in  time.  It's  out  there  somewhere. 
My  rotten  old  leg  is  the  worst.  I  twisted  it  when  I 
jumped  over  the  fence.  That's  when  I  fell.  Tripped 
over  some  bushes  or  something.  I  was  gaining  on  him. 
Up  in  the  woods,  you  see.  He  was  making  for  the 
road  above.  Oh,  if  this  leg  of  mine  was  any  good,  I 
would  have — "  He  broke  off  short  to  grip  his  knee 
with  both  hands,  his  face  twitching  with  pain.  The  sen- 
tences came  jerkily,  breathlessly. 

"  Send  for  Dr.  Smith ! "  Alix  cried  out  suddenly.  "  Be 
quick!  He  has  been  shot, — I  know  he  has  been  shot. 
Go—" 

"  It's  a  scratch,  I  tell  you,  Alix,"  he  protested.  "  He 
didn't  get  me.  He  fired  at  me,  but  it  was  dark.  I'm 
all  right.  There  is  no  time  to  lose.  If  they  get  after 
him  at  once  they'll  catch  him.  I  can  show  them  which 
way  he  went.  Where  the  devil  are  they?  We  ought 
to  have  every  man  in  town  out  there  in  the  woods.  Did 
you  tell  'em  to  bring  guns?  He's  armed.  He — " 

"  You  are  hurt,"  cried  Alix.  "  You  must  have  the 
doctor.  Oh,  for  heaven's  sake,  do  something!  "  The 
last  was  directed  impatiently  to  Mrs.  Strong. 

"  I'll  give  him  a  basin  of  water, — and  some  court 
plaster,"  said  the  older  woman,  who  had  looked  closely 


THE  FACE  AT  THE  WINDOW          217 

at  the  scratch  on  the  young  man's  cheek.  "  It  doesn't 
amount  to  anything, — if  that's  all,  Mr.  Thane?  " 

"That's  all, — except  my  knee,  and  that  will  be  all 
right  in  a  few  minutes.  Let  me  sit  down  here  a  minute. 
Not  in  there, — I'm  covered  with  dirt  and  burrs  and, — 
I  might  get  some  of  this  filthy  blood  on, — that's  all 
right,  Mrs.  Strong,  thank  you.  I'll  be  able  to  go  out 
with  the  gang  as  soon  as  they  come.  Gad !  It's  going 
to  be  great  sport.  Man-hunting !  " 

Alix  was  leaning  against  the  end  of  the  hall-seat, 
watching  him  as  if  fascinated.  He  bent  an  ardent,  sig- 
nificant look  upon  her,  and  her  eyes  widened  slightly 
under  the  contact. 

"  I'll  get  some  water  ready  for  you  in  the  kitchen, 
and*  a — "  began  Mrs.  Strong,  but  Alix,  suddenly  alive, 
intercepted  her  with  a  cry. 

"  No !  I  will  go,  Aunt  Nancy, — I  insist !  "  And 
before  Mrs.  Strong  could  offer  a  word  of  protest,  she 
flashed  past  her  and  was  running  up  the  stairs. 

A  look  of  chagrin  leaped  into  Courtney's  eyes.  He 
had  counted  on  another  minute  or  two  alone  with  her. 
Under  his  breath  he  muttered  an  oath. 

Alix's  bedroom  door  opened  and  closed.  Mrs.  Strong 
was  still  looking  in  astonishment  up  the  staircase. 

"  I— she's  pretty  badly  upset,  Mr.  Thane,"  she  said 
at  last.  "  That  face  in  the  window, — and  everything." 

"  Good  Lord, — you  don't  mean  to  say  you  saw 
him?". 

"  Yes, — looking  in  that  window  over  there.  Only 
for  a  second.  You  must  have  scared  him  away." 

"  Then,  by  George,  you  can  identify  him !  " 

"  He  had  a  mask  on.    Didn't  you  see  his  face?  " 

"  No.    It  was  dark.    Masked,  you  say.    That's  bad. 


218  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

It  will  be  hard  to  swear —  Still,  I  saw  his  figure. 
Short,  heavy  fellow.  Wore  a  cap." 

She  continued  to  look  anxiously  up  the  stairs. 

"  Wait  here,"  she  said  shortly.  "  I  must  go  up  to 
her.  Go  to  the  kitchen  if  you  like,  and  wash  the  blood 
off.  I'll  be  back  in  a  jiffy." 

He  waited  till  she  was  out  of  sight,  and  then  limped 
into  the  living-room, — but  with  a  swiftness  incredible 
in  one  with  a  twisted  knee.  Going  direct  to  the  fire- 
place, he  took  something  out  of  his  coat  pocket  and, 
after  a  glance  at  door  and  window,  quickly  consigned 
it  to  the  flames.  A  small  black  object  it  was,  that 
crumpled  softly  in  his  palm  and  was  consumed  in  a 
flash  by  the  flames.  A  moment  later  he  entered  the 
kitchen,  bringing  consternation  to  the  two  excited  do- 
mestics, both  of  whom  sent  up  cries  of  alarm  at  the 
sight  of  his  bloody  face. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Strong  had  surprised  Alix  in  her 
bathroom,  frantically  washing  her  hands.  She  looked 
up  and  saw  the  housekeeper  standing  in  the  door  be- 
hind her.  The  bowl  was  half  full  of  reddish  water.  The 
expression  of  disgust  in  her  eyes  remained  for  a  mo- 
ment and  then  gave  way  to  confusion.  Neither  spoke 
for  some  time. 

"  What  are  you  doing?  "  asked  Mrs.  Strong. 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Nancy !  "  came  in  a  choked  voice  from  the 
girl's  lips. 

"Is  that  blood?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Alix,  looking  away. 

"  I— I  understand.     Oh,  Alix,— Alix. !  " 

"I  don't  know  what  made  me  do  it, — I  couldn't 
help  myself.  I—  Oh,  it  was  terrible!  I  don't  love 
him,— I  don't  love  him!  As  long  as  I  live, — as  long 


THE  FACE  AT  THE  WINDOW          219 

as  I  live,  I  shall  never  forget  it.  I  shall  never  know 
anything  like  it  again.  I  could  feel  my  soul  being 
dragged  out  of  my  body, —  Oh,  Aunt  Nancy !  What 
am  I  to  do?  What  is  to  become  of  me?  " 

"  There's  only  one  thing  for  you  to  do  now,"  said 
the  other,  slowly,  levelly.  "  Stay  in  this  room.  Lock 
the  door.  Don't  see  him  again.  Keep  away  from  him. 
He's— he's  bad,  Alix!" 

"  But  he  is  not  a  coward !  "  cried  the  girl  eagerly. 
"  He  followed  that  man,  he  chased  him,  he  was  shot 
at, — that  is  not  what  a  coward  would  do.  Addison 
Blythe  is  mistaken.  Those  men  are  mistaken.  He — " 

"  I  hear  people  downstairs, — and  out  in  the  yard. 
You  must  obey  me,  Alix.  You  must  not  see  him  again 
tonight.  God  in  heaven,  what  kind  of  a  spell  has  he 
cast  upon  you?  The  spell  of  the  devil!  Child,  child, 
— don't  you  understand?  That's  what  it  is.  The  spell 
that  makes  women  helpless !  Stay  here !  I  will  send 
Hilda  up  to  you." 

"Why  do  you  blame  him  for  everything?"  cried 
the  girl  hotly.  "  Doesn't  a  woman  ever  cast  this  spell 
you  speak  of?  What  defence  has  a  man  against — " 

"  Do  you  call  yourself  an  evil  woman  ?  Nonsense ! 
Dont  talk  like  that.  I  am  not  blaming  him.  He  can't 
help  himself.  He  loves  you.  That's  not  his  fault. 
But  you  do  not  love  him.  You  are  afraid  of  him. 
You  would  run  from  him  if  you  could.  He  must  go 
away.  You  must  send  him  away.  Tell  him  of  Blythe's 
letter.  Face  him  with  it.  Tomorrow, — not  tonight. 
You  are  not  yourself  tonight.  Trust  me,  dearest  Alix. 
Do  as  I  tell  you.  Promise." 

"  I  will  not  come  down,"  said  Alix  slowly,  and  Mrs. 
Strong  went  out.  She  heard  the  key  turn  in  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ROSABEL 

ALL  night  long  bands  of  men  scoured  the  woods 
and  fields,  with  lanterns  and  dogs  and  guns. 
Courtney  Thane,  thrilled  by  that  one  glorious, 
overpowering  moment  of  contact,  sallied  forth  with  the 
first  of  the  searchers.  He  showed  them  where  the 
masked  man  vaulted  over  the  porch  rail,  and  the  course 
he  took  in  crossing  the  terrace,  below  which  Courtney's 
coat  was  found  where  he  had  cast  it  aside  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  chase.  The  first  shot  was  fired  as  the 
man  climbed  over  the  fence  separating  the  old-fashioned 
garden  from  the  wooded  district  to  the  west,  the  sec- 
ond following  almost  immediately.  Thane  was  over  the 
fence  and  picking  himself  up  from  the  ground  after 
tripping  when  the  last  shot  was  fired.  He  ran  forty 
or  fifty  yards  farther  on  and  then  his  knee  gave  out. 
Realizing  that  pursuit  was  useless  under  the  circum- 
stances, he  hurried  back  to  the  house  to  give  the  alarm. 
It  appears  that  he  first  saw  the  man  as  he  was  near- 
ing  the  top  of  the  steps  leading  to  the  terrace.  The 
fellow's  figure,  in  a  crouching  position,  was  distinctly 
outlined  against  the  lighted  window. 

"  Kind  of  a  funny  time  for  a  robber  to  be  monkeyin' 
around  a  house,"  said  Charlie  Webster,  after  Courtney 
had  concluded  his  brief  story.  "  Eight  o'clock  is  no 
time  to  figure  on  breaking  into  a  house." 

"He  probably  figured  that  the  occupants  would  be 
220 


ROSABEL  221 

at  dinner,"  said  Courtney.  "  Or  maybe  he  was  getting 
the  lay  of  the  land  while  there  were  lights  to  guide  him. 
That  is  most  likely  the  case.  Lord,  how  I  wish  I  had 
had  a  gun !  " 

"  Maybe  it's  lucky  you  didn't,"  said  Charlie.  "  Guns 
are  pretty  treacherous  things  to  monkey  with,  Court. 
You  might  have  shot  yourself." 

"  Oh,  I  guess  I  know  how  to  handle  a  gun,  Charlie," 
retorted  Thane,  after  a  perceptible  pause. 

"  Anyhow,"  remarked  Constable  Foss,  "  we  now  know 
why  that  dog  of  Alix's  was  killed.  This  robber  had 
things  purty  well  sized  up.  He  knowed  he  had  to  fix 
that  dog  first  of  all, — and  that  goes  to  show  another 
thing.  He  is  purty  well  posted  around  these  parts. 
He  knowed  all  about  that  dog.  He  ain't  no  tramp  or 
common  stranger.  The  chances  are  he  ain't  even  a 
perfessional  burglar.  Maybe  some  dago, — or,  by  gosh, 
somebody  we  all  know." 

A  chosen  group  waited  at  the  roadside  above  the 
Windom  place  for  automobiles  which  were  to  be  used 
in  the  attempt  to  head  off  the  invader.  This  was 
Courtney's  idea.  He  suggested  a  wide  cordon  of  ma- 
chines and  men  as  the  only  means  of  cutting  off  the 
fellow's  escape. 

"  You're  not  likely  to  get  anywhere,  Foss,  by  keep- 
ing up  a  stern  chase,"  he  argued.  "  He  has  got  too  big 
a  lead  Our  only  chance  is  to  rush  a  lot  of  men  out 
ahead  of  him  in  cars,  and  then  work  back  through  the 
woods." 

A  boy  came  up  with  Courtney's  fedora  hat,  which  he 
had  picked  up  in  the  brush  near  the  fence. 

"  There's  a  bullet  hole  through  it,  Mr.  Thane,"  he 
cried  in  great  excitement.  "  Lookee  here !  " 


222  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

Sure  enough  there  was  a  hole  in  the  crown  of  the  hat. 

"  Whew ! "  whistled  Courtney,  staring  at  the  hat 
blankly.  "I  never  dreamed —  Why,  good  Lord,  a 
couple  of  inches  lower  and  he'd  have  got  me.  I  remem- 
ber my  hat  blowing  off  as  I  got  up,  but  I  thought  it  was 
the  wind.  Where  did  you  find  it,  kid?  " 

"  Back  there  by  the  fence." 

"  We  must  have  that  hat  for  evidence,"  said  the 
constable.  "  Shows  the  calibre  of  the  bullet,  and  all 
that.  Bring  it  down  to  the  office  in  the  morning,  Mr. 
Thane.  Better  put  it  on  now.  You'll  ketch  cold  out 
here  bareheaded." 

By  this  time  the  lane  and  grounds  were  alive  with 
excited  people, — men,  women  and  children.  Several 
automobiles  approached,  sounding  their  horns.  Men 
were  shouting  directions,  dogs  were  barking,  small  chil- 
dren were  squalling  lustily.  Shadowy,  indistinct  figures 
scuttled  through  the  darkness,  here  and  there  coming 
into  bold  relief  as  they  passed  before  the  lamps  of 
automobiles  or  entered  the  radius  of  light  shed  by  an 
occasional  lantern.  Half  the  town  was  already  on  the 
scene,  and  the  belated  remainder  was  either  on  the  way 
or  grimly  guarding  cash  drawers  in  empty,  deserted 
stores. 

Courtney  reluctantly  announced  that  he  did  not  feel 
up  to  accompanying  the  searchers,  his  leg  was  bother- 
ing him  so.  No,  he  didn't  need  a  doctor.  The  con- 
founded thing  simply  gave  out  on  him  whenever  he  got 
the  least  bit  reckless,  but  it  seldom  if  ever  amounted  to 
anything.  Only  made  him  realize  that  he  couldn't  "  get 
gay"  with  it.  He'd  be  all  right  in  a  day  or  two. 
Hobble  a  little,  that's  all,— like  a  lame  dog.  More 
scared  than  hurt,  you  know,  etc.,  etc. 


ROSABEL  223 

He  picked  his  way  through  the  ever-increasing  crowd 
of  agitated  people,  avoiding  rampant  automobiles  and 
inquisitive  citizens  with  equal  skill,  and  approached 
Alix's  gate.  His  blood  was  rioting.  The  memory  of 
that  triumphant  moment  when  her  warm  body  lay  in 
his  arms, — when  her  lips  were  his, — when  his  eager 
hand  pressed  the  firm,  round  breast, — ah,  the  memory 
of  it  all  set  fire  to  his  blood.  She  had  come  to  him,  she 
had  clung  to  him,  she  had  kissed  him !  He  had  won  f 
She  was  his !  He  must  see  her  again  tonight,  hold  her 
once  more  in  his  arms,  drink  of  the  rapture  that  came 
through  her  lips,  caress  the  throbbing  heart  she  had 
surrendered  to  him.  Anticipation  sent  the  blood  rush- 
ing to  his  head.  He  grew  strangely  dizzy.  He  nar- 
rowly escaped  being  struck  by  a  car. 

"  The  darned  fools  1 "  he  muttered,  as  he  leaped  aside 
into  the  shallow  ditch. 

A  figure  separated  itself  from  a  group  near  the  gate 
and  approached  him.  There  were  no  lights  near  and 
the  lane  was  dark.  He  could  not  see  the  face  of  the 
woman  who  halted  directly  in  front  of  him,  barring 
the  path. 

"  It  is  I,  Courtney, — Rosabel,"  came  in  low,  tremu- 
lous tones. 

He  stood  stockstill,  peering  intently. 

"  Rosabel !  "  he  repeated  vacantly. 

"  I — I  saw  you.  The  auto  lamp  shone  on  your 
face." 

Her  teeth  were  chattering.  Her  voice  was  little 
more  than  a  whisper. 

"  You — you  poor  child!  "  he  cried.  "  What  are  you 
doing  here?  How  do  you  happen  to  be — " 

"  I  came  over  to  spend  the  night  with  Annie  Jordan. 


224  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

I — I  do  that  quite  often,  Courtney.  Aren't — aren't 
you  ever  coming  to  see  me  again  ?  " 

"  I  was  planning  to  come  over  tomorrow,  Rosie, — to- 
morrow sure.  I've  been  meaning  to  run  over  to  your 
house —  " 

"  I — I  thought  you  had  forgotten  all  about  us,"  she 
broke  in,  pathetically.  "  You  wouldn't  do  that,  would 
you?  Didn't  you  get  my  letters?  I  wrote  four  or  five 
times  and  you  never  answered.  You — you  haven't 
forgotten,  have  you  ?  " 

"  Bless  your  heart,  no !  I  should  say  not.  I've  been 
so  busy.  Working  like  a  dog  on  my  book.  The  one 
we  talked  about,  Rosie.  The  story  of  my  experiences 
over  in  France,  you  know." 

"Oh,  Courtney,  are  you  really,  truly  writing  it?" 
she  cried  eagerly. 

"  Sure,"  he  replied.  "  It's  a  tough  job,  believe  me. 
I've  been  so  busy  I  haven't  even  had  time  to  write  let- 
ters. Mother  complains  that  I  never  write  to  her.  Dear 
old  mater, — I  ought  to  be  kicked  for  neglecting  her. 
Stacks  of  unanswered  letters.  Really,  it's  appalling. 
But  I've  just  got  to  finish  this  work.  The  publisher 
wants  it  before  Christmas." 

"  You  promised  to  read  it  to  me  as  you  wrote  it, 
Courtney,"  she  murmured  wistfully.  "  Don't  you 
remember  ?  " 

"  Just  as  soon  as  I've  got  it  in  little  better  shape, 
Rosie.  You  see,  it's  an  awful  mess  now.  I'm  trying 
so  hard  to  concentrate.  It  would  be  different  if  I  were 
an  experienced  writer.  But  I'm  a  terrible  duffer,  you 
know.  The  least  little  thing  throws  mo  off.  I—  "" 

"  I  wouldn't  interfere  for  the  world,  Courtney.  I 
will  wait.  I  don't  want  to  bother  you.  Please  don't 


ROSABEL  225 

think  about  reading  it  to  me  now.  But, — oh,  Court- 
ney, I  have  wanted  to  see  you  so  much.  You  will  come 
over,  won't  you.  Or  would  you  rather  have  me 
come —  " 

"  I'll  be  over,  Rosie, — tomorrow,"  he  said  hastily. 
"  Or  the  day  after,  sure.  I'm  all  done  up.  I  can  hardly 
stand  on  this  leg.  Did  they  tell  you?  I  chased  the 
robber  up  through  the  woods.  Had  a  bad  fall.  Bunged 
up  this  rotten  old  knee  again." 

"  You  poor  boy,"  she  cried.  "  Yes,  I  heard  them 
talking  about  how  brave  you  were.  And  he  shot  at 
you,  too.  I  saw  the  plaster  on  your  face  when  the  light 
shone  on  it  a  while  ago.  I  was  frightened.  I  forgot 
to  ask  you  how  bad  it  is.  I  forgot  everything  but — 
but  just  speaking  to  you.  Is  it  dangerous?  Is  it  a 
bad  wound?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  The  doctor  is  waiting  for  me  up  at 
Miss  Crown's.  They  sent  me  back,  the  other  fellows 
did.  I  wanted  to  go  with  the  gang, — but  I  was  weak 
and —  Oh,  I'll  be  all  right.  Don't  you  worry,  little 
girl.  Dr.  Smith  may  slap  me  into  bed, — 

"  You  must  not  be  foolish,  Courtney.  Do  what  the 
doctor  says.  You  must  get  well — oh,  you  must  get 
well!" 

She  had  come  quite  close  to  him  and  was  peering  at 
his  face.  Even  in  the  darkness  he  could  see  her  big, 
dark  eyes.  Her  teeth  no  longer  chattered,  but  there 
was  a  perilous  quaver  in  her  low,  tense  voice.  She  put 
out  a  hand  to  touch  him.  He  drew  back. 

"  I'll  be  as  fit  as  a  fiddle  in  no  time  at  all,"  he  said 
hurriedly.  "  See  you  tomorrow,  Rosie, — or  as  soon  as 
the  blamed  old  doctor  turns  me  loose.  I've  got  to  be 
on  my  way  now.  He's  waiting  for  me  up  there.  May 


226  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

have  to  put  a  stitch  in  my  mug, — and  yank  my  leg 
like  the  devil,  but—  " 

She  still  blocked  his  path. 

"  Courtney,  I'm — I'm  terribly  unhappy.  I  want  to 
see  you, — very  soon." 

"  I  hear  you  have  been  ill,  Rosie.  Some  one  was  tell- 
ing me  you  were  looking  thin  and — and  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  I  hope  you're  feeling  better." 

She  waited  a  moment.  When  she  spoke  it  was  with 
difficulty. 

"  I'm  awfully  worried,  Courtney,"  she  cried,  her 
voice  little  more  than  a  whisper.  He  was  silent,  so  after 
a  little  while  she  went  on:  "I  wish  I  could  die, — I  wish 
I  could  die !  " 

"  Come,  come !  "  he  said  reassuringly.  "  You  must 
not  talk  like  that,  Rosie.  Cheer  up!  You're  too  young 
to  talk  about  dying.  Think  what  I've  been  through, — 
and  I'm  still  alive!  I'll  run  over  tomorrow, — or  next 
day, — and  try  to  cheer  you  up  a  bit,  little  girl.  So 
long.  I've  got  to  see  the  doctor.  I'm — I'm  suffering 
like  the  dickens." 

" 1  mustn't  keep  you,  Courtney,"  she  murmured, 
stepping  aside  to  let  him  pass.  "  Good  night !  You — 
you  Kitt  come,  won't  you?  Sure?  " 

"  Sure ! "  he  replied,  and  limped  painfully  away. 

A  little  later  Annie  Jordan  found  her  standing  be- 
side the  road,  where  he  had  left  her.  She  was  looking 
up  at  the  brightly  lighted  house  at  the  top  of  the  lane. 

"  Goodness !  "  cried  Annie.  "  I  thought  you  were 
lost,  Rosie.  Where  on  earth  have  you  been  ?  " 

'*  Maybe  I  am  lost,"  replied  the  girl,  and  Annie, 
failing  to  see  anything  cryptic  in  the  words,  laughed 
gaily  at  the  quaintness  of  them. 


ROSABEL  227 

"  Come  on,"  she  said,  thrusting  her  arm  through 
Rosabel's,  "  let's  go  back  home.  There's  nothing  doing 
here.  And  that  wind  cuts  through  one  like  a  knife. 
Gee,  it's  fierce,  isn't  it?" 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  in  yet,"  protested  Rosabel, 
hanging  back.  "  Let's  wait  awhile.  Let's  wait  till 
Dr.  Smith  comes  out.  He's  up  there  with — with  Alix 
Crown.  Maybe  he  can  tell  us  how — " 

"  Doc  Smith  isn't  up  there.  He's  gone  up  the  road 
in  his  car  with  Dick  Hurdle  and — why,  Rosie,  you're 
shivering  like  a  leaf.  Have  you  got  a  chill?  Come  on 
home.  We'll  have  Dr.  Smith  in  as  soon  as  he  gets 
back  to—  " 

"  I  don't  want  the  doctor,"  cried  Rosabel  fiercely. 
"  I  won't  have  one,  I  tell  you.  I  won't  have  one !  " 


CHAPTER  XVII 

SHADOWS 

GREATLY  to  Courtney's  chagrin,  his  triumphal 
progress  was  summarily  checked  when  he  pre- 
sented himself  at  the  door.  He  could  hardly 
believe  his  ears.  Miss  Crown  was  in  her  room  and 
would  not  be  able  to  see  any  one  that  night.  She  was 
.very  nervous  and  "  upset,"  explained  the  maid,  and 
had  given  orders  to  admit  no  one.  Of  course,  Hilda 
went  on  to  say,  if  Mr.  Thane  wanted  to  come  in  and 
rest  himself,  or  if  there  was  anything  she  or  the  cook 
could  do  for  him, — but  Courtney  brusquely  interrupted 
her  to  say  that  he  was  sure  Miss  Crown  did  not  mean 
to  exclude  him,  and  directed  Hilda  to  take  word  up  to 
her  that  he  was  downstairs. 

"  It  won't  do  any  good,"  said  Hilda,  who  was  direct 
to  say  the  least.  "  She's  gone  to  bed.  My  orders  is 
not  to  disturb  her." 

"Are  they  her  orders  or  Mrs.  Strong's  orders?" 
(demanded  Courtney,  driven  to  exasperation. 

"  All  I  can  say,  sir,  is  they're  my  orders,  sir,"  re- 
plied Hilda,  quite  succinctly. 

"All  right,"  said  he  curtly.  Then,  as  an  after- 
thought :  "  Please  say  that  I  stopped  in  to  see  if  I  could 
be  of  any  further  service  to  Miss  Crown,  will  you, 
Hilda?" 

He  was  very  much  crestfallen  as  he  made  his  way 
228 


SHADOWS  229 

down  the  steps  to  the  lane.  This  wasn't  at  all  what 
he  had  expected. 

There  were  a  number  of  people  near  the  gate.  In- 
stead of  going  directly  down  the  walk,  he  turned  to  the 
right  at  the  bottom  of  the  terrace  and  cut  diagonally 
across  the  lawn.  Coming  to  one  of  the  big  oaks  he  sat 
down  for  a  moment  on  the  rustic  seat  that  encircled 
its  base.  Sheltered  from  the  wind  he  managed  to  strike 
a  match  and  light  a  cigarette.  Assured  that  no  one 
was  near,  he  leaned  over  and  felt  with  his  hand  under 
the  bench.  His  fingerg  closed  upon  an  object  wedged 
between  the  seat  and  one  of  the  slanting  supports. 
Quickly  withdrawing  it,  he  dropped  it  into  his  over- 
coat pocket,  and,  after  a  moment,  resumed  his  progress, 
making  for  the  carriage  gate  in  the  left  lower  corner  of 
the  grounds. 

He  had  a  sharp  eye  out  for  Rosabel  Vick.  He  heard 
Annie  Jordan's  high-pitched  voice  in  the  road  ahead 
of  him  and  slackened  his  pace,  In  due  time  he  limped 
up  the  steps  of  Dowd's  Tavern, 

Several  women  were  in  the  "  lounge,"  chattering  like 
magpies  in  front  of  the  fire.  There  were  no  men  about. 
He  went  in  and  for  ten  minutes  listened  to  the  singing 
of  his  praises.  Then,  requesting  a  pitcher  of  hot  water, 
he  hobbled  upstairs,  politely  declining  not  only  the 
Misses  Dowd's  offer  to  bathe  and  bandage  his  heroic 
knee,  but  Miss  Grady's  bottle  of  witchhazel,  Miss  Mil- 
ler's tube  of  Baumc  Analgesique  and  old  Mrs.  Nichols* 
infallible  remedy  for  qvery  ailment  under  the  sun, — 
a  flaxseed  poultice. 

The  first  thing  he  did  on  entering  his  room  was  to 
open  his  trunk  and  deposit  therein  the  shiny  object  lie 
had  recovered  from  its  hiding-place  under  the  tree-seat. 


230  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

Before  hanging  his  hat  on  the  clothes-tree  in  the  corner 
of  the  room,  he  thoughtfully  examined  the  bullet  hole 
in  the  crown. 

"  Thirty-eight  calibre,  all  right,"  he  reflected.  Pok- 
ing his  forefinger  through  the  hole,  he  enlarged  it  to 
some  extent.  "More  like  a  forty-four  now,"  he  said 
in  a  satisfied  tone. 

Margaret  Slattery  brought  up  the  hot  water  and 
some  fresh  firewood  for  his  stove,  in  which  the  fire 
burned  low. 

"  Would  you  be  liking  a  drink  of  whiskey,  Mr. 
Thane?"  she  inquired,  with  a  stealthy  look  over  her 
shoulder.  "You're  all  done  up, — and  half-frozen,  I 
guess." 

"Whiskey?"  he  exclaimed.  "There  ain't  no  sitch 
animal,"  he  lamented  dolefully. 

"  Miss  Jennie's  got  some  cooking  brandy  stuck  away 
in  the  cellar,"  whispered  Margaret.  "  We  use  it  at 
Christmas  time, — for  the  plum  pudding,  you  know.  I 
guess  it's  the  same  thing  as  whiskey,  ain't  it?" 

"  Well,  hardly.  Still,  I  think  I  could  do  with  a  nip 
of  it,  Maggie." 

"  I'll  see  what  I  can  do,"  said  Margaret,  and  de- 
parted. 

She  did  not  return,  for  the  very  good  reason  that 
Miss  Jennie  apprehended  her  in  the  aet  of  pouring 
something  from  a  dark  brown  bottle  into  a  brand  new 
fruit  jar. 

"What  are  you  doing  there,  Maggie?"  demanded 
Miss  Dowd  from  the  foot  of  the  cellar  stairs. 

Miss  Slattery's  back  was  toward  her  at  the  time.  She 
was  startled  into  hunching  it  slightly,  as  if  expecting 
the  lash  of  a  whip, — an  attitude  of  rigidity  maintained 


SHADOWS  231 

during  the  brief  period  in  which  her  heart  suspended 
action  altogether. 

"  I'm — I'm  getting  some  vinegar  for  Mr.  Thane  to 
gargle  with,  Miss  Jennie,"  she  mumbled.  "  He's — he's 
got  a  sore  throat." 

"  Let  me  smell  that  stuff,  Maggie,"  said  Miss  Jennie 
sternly.  One  sniff  was  sufficient.  "  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  yourself,  Margaret  Slattery,  leading  a 
young  man  into  temptation  like  this.  You  may  be 
starting  him  on  the  road  to  perdition.  It  is  just  such 
things  as  this  that—  " 

"  Oh,  gosh !  "  exclaimed  Margaret,  recovering  her- 
self. "  Don't  you  go  thinking  he's  as  good  as  all  that. 
From  what  he  was  telling  me  at  breakfast  the  other 
day,  he  used  to  make  the  round  trip  to  purgatory  every 
night  or  so, — only  he  said  it  was  paradise.  Keep  your 
old  brandy.  He  wouldn't  like  it  anyway.  Not  him! 
He  says  he's  swallered  enough  champagne  to  float  the 
whole  American  Navy." 

"  The  very  idea !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Jennie.  "  Go  to 
your  room,  Maggie.  It's  bad  enough  for  you  to  be 
stealing  but  when  you  make  it  worse  by  lying,  I —  " 

"  I'm  quitting  you  in  the  morning,"  said  Margaret, 
her  Irish  up. 

"  It  won't  be  the  first  time,"  said  Miss  Jennie,  im- 
perturbably. 

Courtney  sat  for  a  long  time  before  the  booming 
little  stove.  He  forgot  Margaret  Slattery  and  her 
mission. 

"  I  guess  it  took  her  off  her  feet,"  he  reflected  aloud. 
"  That's  the  way  with  some  of  them.  They  get  pan- 
icky. Go  all  to  pieces  when  they  find  out  what  it  really 
means  to  let  go  of  themselves.  God!  She's  wonder- 


232  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

ful !  "  He  leaned  back  in  the  chair  and  closed  his  eyes ; 
a  smile  settled  on  his  lips.  For  a  long  time  he  sat 
there,  fondling  the  memory  of  that  blissful  moment.  A 
slight  frown  made  its  appearance  after  a  while.  He 
opened  his  eyes.  His  thoughts  had  veered.  "  What 
rotten  luck !  If  it  could  only  have  been  Alix  instead  of 
that — "  He  arose  abruptly  and  began  pacing  the 
floor.  After  a  long  time  he  sighed  resignedly.  "I 
mustn't  forget  to  telephone  her  tomorrow."  Then  he 
began  to  undress  for  bed. 

He  looked  at  his  knee.  There  was  a  deep,  irregular 
scar  on  the  outside  of  the  leg,  while  on  the  inside  a 
knuckle-like  protuberance  of  considerable  size  provided 
ample  evidence  of  a  badly  shattered  joint,  long  since 
healed.  Along  the  thigh  there  was  another  wicked 
looking  scar,  with  several  smaller  streaks  and  blemishes 
of  a  less  pronounced  character.  He  placed  some  hot 
compresses  on  the  joint,  gave  it  a  vigorous  massage, 
and,  before  getting  into  bed,  worked  it  up  and  down 
for  several  minutes. 

"Clumsy  ass!"  he  muttered.  "Next  time  you'll 
watch  your  step.  Don't  go  jumping  over  fences  in  the 
dork.  Gad,  for  a  couple  of  minutes  I  thought  I'd  put 
it  on  the  blink  for  keeps." 

The  next  morning,  up  in  the  woods  above  Alix's 
house,  the  crude  black  mask  was  found,  and  some  dis- 
tance farther  on  an  old  grey  cap,  from  which  the  lining 
and  sweatband  had  been  ripped.  The  search  for  the 
man,  however,  was  fruitless.  Constable  Foss  visited 
the  camp  of  a  gang  of  Italian  railroad  labourers  near 
Hawkins  and  was  reported  to  be  bringing  several  in- 
dignant "  dagoes  "  over  to  Windomville  to  see  if  Court- 


SHADOWS  233 

ney  or  the  two  ladies  could  identify  them.  He  was  very 
careful  to  choose  men  with  thick  black  moustaches. 

Bright  and  early,  Courtney  repaired  to  the  house  on 
the  hill.  His  progress  was  slow.  Aside  from  the  effort 
it  cost  him  to  walk,  he  was  delayed  all  along  the  route 
by  anxious,  perturbed  citizens  who  either  complimented 
him  on  his  bravery  or  advised  him  to  "  look  out  for  that 
cut  "  on  his  cheek,  or  he'd  have  "  a  tough  time  if  blood- 
poisoning  set  in." 

Mrs.  Strong  admitted  him. 

"  Well,  when  will  she  be  able  to  see  me?  "  he  de- 
manded on  being  informed  that  Alix  was  in  no  con- 
dition to  see  any  one. 

"  I  can't  say,"  said  Mrs.  Strong  shortly. 

*'  Have  you  had  the  doctor  in  to  see  her?  " 

"  No." 

"Well,  that's  rather  strange,  isn't  it?" 

"  Not  at  all,  Mr.  Thane.  She  isn't  ill.  She  has  had 
a  shock, — same  as  I  have,  had, — and  she'll  get  over  it 
in  good  time.'* 

"  You  seem  to  have  survived  the  shock  remarkably 
well,  Mrs.  gtrong,"  he  said  with  unmistakable  irony. 

" How  is  the  scratch  on  your  face?"  she  asked,  ig- 
noring the  remark. 

"Amounts  to  nothing,"  he  replied,  almost  gruffly. 
"  I'll  write  a  little  note  to  Alix,  if  you'll  be  so  good  as 
to  take  it  np  to  her." 

"  Very  welL  I'll  see  that  she  gets  it.  Will  you  write 
it  here?" 

"  If  you  (don't  mind.  I'll  wait  in  case  she  wants  to 
send  down  an  answer." 

"  I'll  get  you  some  paper  and  pen  and  ink,"  said  she. 


234  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"  Some  paper,  that's  all.    I  have  a  fountain  pen." 

He  dashed  off  a  few  lines,  folded  the  sheet  of  note 
paper  and  handed  it  to  Mrs.  Strong.  He  had  written 
nothing  he  was  unwilling  for  her  to  read.  In  fact,  he 
expected  her  to  read  it  as  soon  as  she  was  safely  out 
of  his  sight. 

"  She  thinks  she  may  feel  up  to  seeing  you  tomorrow, 
— or  next  day,"  reported  the  housekeeper  on  her  return 
from  Alix's  room. 

His  rankling  brain  seized  upon  the  words — "  to- 
morrow— next  day."  He  had  used  them  himself  only 
ihe  night  before.  "  Tomorrow, — or  next  day !  "  He 
frowned.  Hang  it  all,  was  she  putting  him  off?  He 
experienced  a  slight  chill. 

"  I  will  run  in  again  in  the  morning,"  he  said,  man- 
aging to  produce  a  sympathetic  smile.  "  And  I'll  tele- 
phone this  evening  to  see  how  she  is." 

All  the  way  down  the  walk  to  the  gate,  he  kept  re- 
peating the  words  "  tomorrow, — or  next  day."  In 
some  inexplicable  way  they  had  fastened  themselves 
upon  him.  At  the  gate  he  turned  and  looked  up  at 
Alix's  bedroom  windows.  The  lace  curtains  hung 
straight  and  immovable.  It  pleased  him  to  think  that 
she  was  peering  out  at  him  from  behind  one  of  those 
screens  of  lace,  soft-eyed  and  longingly.  Moved  by  a 
sudden  impulse,  he  waved  his  hand  and  smiled. 

His  guess  was  right.  She  was  looking  down  through 
the  narrow  slit  between  the  curtains.  Her  eyes  were 
dark  and  brooding  and  slightly  contracted  by  the  per- 
plexity that  filled  them.  She  started  back  in  confusion, 
her  hand  going  swiftly  to  her  breast.  Was-  it  possible 
that  he  could  see  through  the  curtains?  A  warm  flush 


SHADOWS  235 

mantled  her  face.  She  felt  it  steal  down  over  her  body. 
Incontinently  she  fled  from  the  window  and  hopped 
back  into  the  warm  bed  she  had  left  on  hearing  the 
front  door  close. 

"  How  silly !  "  she  cried  irritably.  She  sat  bolt  up- 
right and  looked  at  her  reflection  in  the  mirror  of  her 
dressing-table  across  the  room.  Her  night-dress  had 
slipped  down  from  one  shapely  shoulder;  her  dark, 
glossy  hair  hung  in  two  long  braids  down  her  back ;  her 
warm,  red  lips  were  parted  in  a  shy,  embarrassed  smile. 

"  I  wonder —  But  of  course  he  couldn't.  Unless, — " 
and  here  the  smile  faded  away, — "  unless  he  possesses 
some  strange  power  to  see  through  walls  and —  Some- 
times I  feel  that  he  has  that  power.  If  he  could  not 
see  me,  why  did  he  wave  his  hand  at  me  ?  " 

There  came  a  knock  at  her  door.  She  was  seized  by 
a  sudden  panic.  For  a  moment  she  was  unable  to  speak. 

"Alix!     Are  you  awake?" 

It  was  Mrs.  Strong's  voice.  A  vast  wave  of  relief 
swept  through  her. 

"  Goodness  !  "  she  gasped,  and  then :  "  Come  in,  Aunt 
Nancy?" 

"  Courtney  Thane  has  just  been  here,"  said  the 
housekeeper  as  she  approached  the  bed. 

"Has  he?"  inquired  Alix  innocently. 

"  He  left  a  note  for  you." 

"  Read  it  to  me,"  said  the  girl. 

"  '  Dearest :  I  am  grieved  beyond  words  to  hear  that 
you  are  so  awfully  done  up.  I  am  not  surprised.  It 
was  enough  to  bowl  anybody  over.  I  did  not  sleep  a 
wink  last  night,  thinking  about  it.  I  have  been  living 
in  a  daze  ever  since.  I  cannot  begin  to  tell  you  how 


236  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

disappointed  I  am  in  not  being  able  to  see  you  this 

morning.    Perhaps  by  tonight  you  will  feel  like  letting 

me  come.    Ever  yours,  Courtney.'  " 

l    "  Well?  "  said  Mrs.  Strong,  sitting  down  on  the  edge 

of  the  bed. 

•     A  fine  line  appeared  between  Alix's  eyes.     She  was 

deep  in  thought. 

"Have  they  caught  the  man?"  she  asked,  after  a 
moment.  ' 

"  Not  that  I  know  of.  What's  more,  they'll  never 
catch  him.  Bill  Foss  sent  word  up  he  was  bringing 
several  Italians  here  to  see  if  we  could  identify  one  of 
them  as  the  man." 

"  How  can  we  be  expected  to  identify  a  man  whose 
face  was  covered  by  a  mask?  " 

'  "  Well,  Bill  is  doing  his  best,"  replied  Mrs.  Strong 
patiently.  "  We've  got  to  say  that  much  for  him. 
Charlie  Webster  was  here  early  this  morning  to  say 
that  the  police  up  in  town  have  been  notified,  and 
they're  sending  a  detective  out.  But  he  won't  be  any 
better  than  Bill  Foss,  so  it's  a  waste  of  time.  What 
we  ought  to  have  is  a  Pinkerton  man  from  Chicago." 

Despite  the  calm,  deliberate  manner  in  which  she 
spoke,  there  was  an  odd,  eager  light  in  Mrs.  Strong's 
eyes. 

"  I  wish  you  would  go  down  to  the  warehouse,  Aunt 
Nancy,  and  ask  Charlie  to  take  the  car  and  go  up  to 
the  city.  Tell  him  to  call  up  the  Pinkerton  offices  in 
Chicago  and  ask  them  to  send  the  best  man  they  have. 
No  one  must  know  about  it,  however.  Impress  that 
very  firmly  upon  Charlie.  Not  even  the  police — or 
Bill  Foss.  Have  him  arrange  to  meet  the  man  in  town 
and  give  him  directions  and  all  the  information  pos- 


SHADOWS  237 

siblo.  Please  do  it  at  once, — and  tell  Ed  to  have  the 
car  ready." 

"  That's  the  way  I  like  to  hear  you  talk,"  cried  Mrs. 
Strong. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Charlie  Webster  was  on  his  way 
to  the  city.  He  had  an  additional  commission  to  per- 
form. Mrs.  Strong  was  sending  a  telegram  to  her  son 
David. 

II 

The  next  day  a  well-dressed,  breezy-looking  young 
man  walked  into  Charlie's  office  and  exclaimed: 

"Hello,  Uncle  Charlie!" 

"  Good  Lord!  "  gasped  Charlie  Webster.  "  It  can't 
be — why,  by  gosh,  if  it  ain't  Harry !  Holy  smoke !  " 
He  jumped  up  and  grasped  the  stranger's  hand.  Pump- 
ing it  vigorously,  he  cried:  "I'd  know  that  Conkling 
nose  if  I  saw  it  in  Ethiopia.  God  bless  my  soul,  you're 
—you're  a  man!  It  beats  all  how  you  kids  grow  up. 
How's  your  mother?  And  what  in  thunder  are  you  do- 
ing here  ?  " 

*'  I  guess  I've  changed  a  lot,  Uncle  Charlie,"  said  the 
young  man,  "  but  you  ain't?  You  look  just  the  same 
as  you  did  fifteen  years  ago." 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  My  gosh,  I  can't  believe  my 
eyes." 

'*  I  was  twenty-four  last  birthday.     You — " 

*'  If  ever  a  feller  grew  up  to  look  like  his  father, 
you  have,  Harry.  You're  the  living  image  of  George 
Conkling, — and  you  don't  look  any  more  like  your 
mother  than  you  look  like  me." 

"  Well,  you  and  Mother  look  a  lot  alike,  Uncle 
'Charlie.  She's  thinner  than  you  are  but — " 


238  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"  Well,  I  should  hope  so,"  exploded  Charlie.  "  Take 
a  chair,  Harry— and  tell  us  all  about  yourself.  Wait 
a  minute.  Sam,  shake  hands  with  my  nephew,  Harry 
Conkling,— Mr.  Slutterback,  Mr.  Conkling.  Harry; 
lives  up  in  Laporte.  His  mother — " 

"Guess  again,  Uncle  Charlie.  No  more  Laporte 
for  me.  I've  been  living  in  Chicago  ever  since  I  got 
married.  Working  for — " 

"Married?  You  married?  A  kid  like  you?  Well, 
I'll—be—darned ! " 

"Sure.  And  I'm  not  Harry,  Uncle  Charlie.  I'm 
Wilbur.  Harry's  two  years  older  than  I  am.  He's 
married  and  got  a  kid  three  years  old.  Lives  in  Gary." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  little  Wilbur?  Little 
freckle-faced  Wilbur  with  the  pipe-stem  legs?  " 

Mr.  Webster's  nephew  took  a  chair  near  the  stove, 
unbuttoned  his  overcoat,  and  held  his  hands  to  the 
fire.  He  was  a  tall,  rather  awkward  young  man,  with 
large  ears,  a  turned-up  nose  and  a  prominent  "  Adam's 
Apple." 

"  I'm  working  for  one  of  the  biggest  oil  companies 
in  the  world.  We've  got  six  hundred  thousand  acres 
of  the  finest  oil-producing  territory  in  the  United 
States,  and  we  control  most  of  the  big  concessions  in 
Honduras,  Ecuador,  Peru,  Colombia  and — thirty  mil- 
lion dollar  concern,  that's  all  it  is.  Oh,  you  needn't 
look  worried.  I'm  not  going  to  try  to  sell  you  any 
stock,  Uncle  Charlie.  That  is,  not  unless  you've  got 
fifty  thousand  to  invest.  I'll  tell  you  what  I'm  here  for. 
My  company  wants  to  interest  Miss  Crown  in — " 

"  Hold  on  a  minute,  Wilbur,"  interrupted  Charlie 
firmly.  "You  might  just  as  well  hop  on  a  train  and 
go  back  to  Chicago.  If  you're  expecting  me  to  help 


SHADOWS  239 

you  unload  a  lot  of  bum  oil  stock  on  Miss  Alix  Crown 
you're  barking  up  the  wrong  tree, — I  don't  give  a  cuss 
if  you  are  my  own  sister's  son.  Miss  Crown  is  my — " 

The  young  man  held  up  his  hand,  and  favoured  his 
uncle  with  a  tolerant  smile. 

"  I'm  not  asking  your  help,  old  chap.  I've  got  a 
letter  to  her  from  Mr.  Addison  Blythe,  one  of  our  big- 
gest stockholders.  All  I'm  asking  you  to  do  is  to  put 
me  up  at  your  house  for  a  day  or  two  while  I  lay  the 
whole  matter  before  Miss  Crown." 

"  I  haven't  got  any  house,"  said  Charlie,  rather  help- 
lessly. "  Wait  a  second !  Let  me  think.  How  long 
do  you  expect  to  be  here,  Wilbur?  " 

"  I  wouldn't  be  here  more  than  half  an  hour  if  I  could 
get  Miss  Crown  to  say  she'd  take — " 

"  Well,  she's  sick  and  can't  see  anybody  for  a  couple 
of  days, — 'specially  book  agents  or  oil  promoters.  I 
was  just  thinking  I  might  fix  something  up  for  you  over 
at  the  Tavern  where  I'm  staying.  It  won't  cost  you  a 
cent,  my  boy.  I'd  be  a  darned  cheap  sort  of  an  uncle 
if  I  couldn't  entertain  my  nephew  when  he  comes  to 
our  town, — out  of  a  clear  sky,  you  might  say.  I'll  be 
mighty  glad  to  have  you,  Wilbur,  but  you've  got  to 
understand  I  won't  have  Miss  Crown  bothered  while 
she's  sick." 

"  Permit  me  to  remind  you,  Uncle  Charlie,  that  I 
am  a  gentleman.  I  don't  go  butting  in  where  I'm  not 
wanted.  My  instructions  from  the  General  Manager 
are  very  explicit.  I  am  to  see  Miss  Crown  when  con- 
venient, and  give  her  all  the  dope  on  our  gigantic  enter- 
prise,—that's  all." 

"  By  the  way, — er, — is  that  your  automobile  out 
there?" 


240  QUILL'S  WINDOTY 

"  It's  one  I  hired  in  the  city." 

"You — er — didn't  happen  to  bring  your  wife  witK 
you,  did  you?  Because  it  would  be  darned  awkward 
if  you  did.  She'd  have  to  sleep  with  Angle  Miller  or 
Flora—" 

"  She's  not  with  me,  Uncle  Charlie, — so  don't  worry. 
Of  course,  if  it  isn't  convenient  for  you  to  have  me  for; 
a  day  or  two,  I  can  motor  in  and  out  from  the  city. 
Money's  no  object,  you  know.  Fve  got  a  roll  of  ex- 
pense money  here  that  would  choke  a  hippopotamus." 

"  Come  on  over  to  the  Tavern,  Wilbur.  We'll  see 
Miss  Molly  Dowd  and  fix  tilings  up.  Sam,  if  anybody 
asks  for  me,  just  say  I'll  be  back  in  fifteen  minutes." 

And  that  is  how  "  Mortie  "  Gilfillan,  one  of  the  ablest 
operatives  in  the  Pinkerton  service,  made  his  entry  into 
the  village  of  Windomville.  Inasmuch  as  he  comes  to 
act  in  a  strictly  confidential  capacity,  we  will  leave 
him  to  his  own  devices,  content  with  the  simple  state- 
ment that  he  remained  two  full  days  at  Dowd's  Tavern 
as  the  guest  of  his  "Uncle  Charlie";  that  he  suc- 
ceeded in  obtaining  an  interview  with  the  rich  Miss 
Crown,  that  he  "  talked  "  oil  to  everybody  with  whom. 
he  came  in  contact,  including  Courtney  Thane ;  that  he 
declined  to  consider  the  appeals  of  at  least  a  score  of 
citizens  to  be  "  let  in  on  the  ground  floor  "  owing  to 
the  company's  irrevocable  decision  to  sell  only  in  blocks 
of  ten  thousand  shares  at  five  dollars  per  share;  that 
he  said  good-bye  to  Mr.  Webster  at  the  end  of  his  second 
day  and  departed — not  for  Chicago  but,  very  cleverly 
disguised,  to  accept  a  job  as  an  ordinary  labourer  with 
Jim  Bagley,  manager  of  the  Crown  farms. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

MR.    GILFILLAN    IS    PUZZLED 

THREE  days  passed.     The  village  had  recovered 
from   its    excitement.      The    Weekly   Swn   ap- 
peared with  a  long  and  harrowing  account  of 
the  "  vile  attempt  to  rifle  the  home  of  our  esteemed 
and  patriotic  citizeness,"  and  sang  the  praises  of  Court- 
ney  Thane,  whose   "  well-known  valour,   acquired  by 
heroic  services  during  the  Great  War,"  prevented  what 
might  have  been  "  a  most  lamentable  tragedy." 

Those  three  days  were  singularly  unprofitable  to  the 
*'  hero."  He  was  unable  to  see  Alix  crown.  He  made 
daily  visits  to  her  home  but  always  with  the  same  result. 
Miss  Crown  was  in  no  condition  to  see  any  one. 

"  But  she  saw  this  fellow  Conkling,"  he  expostulated 
on  the  third  day.  "  He  sold  her  a  lot  of  phony^  oil  stock. 
If  she  could  see  him,  I — " 

"  He  came  all  the  way  from  Chicago  to  see  her, — 
with  a  letter  from  Mr.  Blythe,"  explained  Mrs.  Strong. 
"  She  had  to  see  him.  I  guess  you  can  wait,  can't 
you,  Mr.  Thane?" 

"  Certainly.  That  isn't  the  point.  If  I  had  seen  her 
in  time  I  should  have  warned  her  against  buying  that 
stock.  She's  been  let  in  for  a  whale  of  a  loss,  that's 
all  I  can  say, — and  it's  too  late  to  do  anything  about 
it.  Good  Lord,  if  ever  a  woman  needed  a  man  around 
the  house,  she  does.  She — " 

"  I  will  tell  her  what  you  say,"  said  Mrs.  Strong 
calmly. 

241 


242  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"  Don't  you  do  anything  of  the  kind,"  he  exclaimed 
hastily.  "I  was  speaking  to  you  as  a  friend,  Mrs. 
Strong.  She  means  a  great  deal  to  both  of  us.  You 
understand  how  it  stands  with  Alix  and  me,  don't  you? 
I— I  would  cheerfully  lay  down  my  life  for  her.  More 
than  that,  I  cannot  say  or  do." 

"  She  will  be  up  by  tomorrow,"  said  Mrs.  Strong,  im- 
pressed in  spite  of  herself  by  this  simple,  direct  appeal. 
(All  that  day  she  caught  herself  wondering  if  he  had 
cast  his  spell  over  her!) 

"  Please  give  her  my  love, — and  say  that  I  am  think- 
ing about  her  every  second  of  the  day,"  said  he  gravely, 
and  went  away. 

Alix  had  received  another  letter  from  Addison 
Blythe.  Enclosed  with  it  was  a  communication  from 
an  official  formerly  connected  with  the  American  Am- 
bulance. It  was  brief  and  to  the  point: 

Courtney  Thane  volunteered  for  service  in  the  American 
Ambulance  in  Paris  in  November,  lp!5.  He  was  accepted 
and  ordered  to  appear  at  the  hospital  at  Neuilly-sur-Seine 
for  instructions.  His  conduct  was  such  that  he  was  dis- 
nfcissed  from  the  service  before  the  expiration  of  a  week,  his 
uniform  taken  away  from  him,  and  a  request  made  to  the 
French  Military  authorities  to  see  that  he  was  ordered  to 
leave  the  country  at  once.  Our  records  show  that  he  left 
hurriedly  for  Spain.  He  was  a  bad  influence  to  our  boys 
in  Paris,  and  there  was  but  one  course  left  open  to  us.  We 
have  no  account  of  his  subsequent  movements.  With  his 
dismissal  from  the  service,  he  ceased  to  be  an  object  of 
concern  to  us. 

Alix  did  not  destroy  this  letter.  She  locked  it  away 
in  a  drawer  of  her  desk.  She  had  made  up  her  mind 
to  confront  Thane  with  this  official  communication.  It 


MR.  GILFILLAN  IS  PUZZLED  243 

was  an  ordeal  she  dreaded.  Her  true  reason  for  re- 
fusing to  see  him  was  clear  to  her  if  to  no  one  else: 
she  hated  the  thought  of  hurting  him  1  Moreover,  she 
was  strangely  oppressed  by  the  fear  that  she  would 
falter  at  the  crucial  moment  and  that  her  half-guarded 
defences  would  go  down  before  the  assault.  She  knew 
his  strength  far  better  than  she  knew  his  weakness. 
She  had  had  an  illuminating  example  of  his  power.  Was 
she  any  stronger  now  than  on  that  never-to-be-forgotten 
night?  .  .  .  She  put  off  the  evil  hour. 

And  on  the  same  third  day  of  renunciation,  she  had 
a  letter  from  David  Strong.  She  wept  a  little  over  it, 
and  driven  finally  by  a  restlessness  such  as  she  had 
never  known  before,  feverishly  dressed  herself,  and  set 
forth  late  in  the  afternoon  for  a  long  walk  in  the  open 
air.  She  took  to  the  leaf-strewn  woodland  roads,  and 
there  was  a  definite  goal  in  mind. 

II 

Courtney  remembered  Rosabel  Vick. 

"  I  guess  I'd  better  call  her  up,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  I  ought  to  have  done  it  several  days  ago.  Beastly 
rotten  of  me  to  have  neglected  it.  She's  probably  been 
sitting  over  there  waiting  ever  since —  Gad,  she  may 
have  some  good  news.  Maybe  she  is  mistaken.** 

He  went  over  to  the  telephone  exchange  and  called 
up  the  Vick  house.  Rosabel  answered. 

"That  you,  Rosie?  .  .  .  Well,  I  couldn't.  I've 
been  laid  up,  completely  out  of  commission  ever  since 
I  saw  you.  .  .  .  What?  .  .  .  I— I  didn't  get  that, 
Rosie.  Speak  louder,— closer  to  the  telephone." 

Very  distinctly  now  came  the  words,  almost  in  a 
wail: 


244  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"Oh,  Courtney,  why — why  do  you  lie  to  me?" 
"  Lie  to  you?    My  dear  girl,  do  you  know  what  you 


A  low  moan,  and  a  harsh,  choking  sob  smote  his 
ear,  and  then  the  click  of  the  receiver  on  the  hook. 

"Well,  I'll  be  hanged!"  he  muttered  angrily. 
"  That's  the  last  time  I'll  call  you  up,  take  it  from  me." 

And  it  was  the  last  time  he  ever  called  her  up. 

Then  he,  too,  ravaged  by  uneasy  thoughts,  struck 
off  into  the  country  lanes,  the  better  to  commune  with 
himself.  In  due  course,  he  came  to  the  gate  leading  up 
to  the  top  of  Quill's  Window.  Here  he  lagged.  His 
gaze  went  across  the  strip  of  pasture-land  to  the  de- 
serted house  above  the  main-travelled  road.  He  started. 
His  gaze  grew  more  intense.  A  lone  figure  traversed 
the  highway.  It  turned  in  at  the  gate,  and,  as  he 
watched,  strode  swiftly  up  the  path  to  the  front  door. 
r.  .  ..  He  saw  her  bend  over,  evidently  to  insert  a  key 
in  the  lock.  Then  the  door  opened  and  closed  behind 
her. 

HI 

Every  word  of  David's  letter  was  impressed  on  Alix's 
brain.  Over  and  over  again  she  repeated  to  herself 
certain  passages  as  she  strode  rapidly  through  the 
winding  lanes.  She  spoke  them  tenderly,  wonderingly, 
and  her  eyes  were  shining. 

DEAREST  Aux: 

I  have  always  loved  you.  I  want  you  to  know  it.  There 
Las  never  been  an  hour  in  all  these  years  that  I  have  not 
thought  of  you,  that  your  dear  face  has  not  been  before  me. 
In  France,  here,  everywhere, — always  I  am  looking  into 
your  eyes,  always  I  am  hearing  your  voice,  always  I  am 


MR.  GILFILLAN  IS  PUZZLED  245 

feeling  the  gentle  touch,  of  your  hand.  Now  you  know.  I 
could  not  have  told  you  before.  I  am  the  blacksmith's 
son.  God  knows  I  am  not  ashamed  of  that.  But  I  cannot 
forget,  nor  can  you,  that  a  blacksmith's  son  lies  buried  at 
the  top  of  that  grim  old  hill,  and  that  he  was  not  good 
enough  for  the  daughter  of  a  Windom.  I  hear  that  you 
have  given  your  heart  to  some  one  else.  You  will  marry 
him.  But  to  the  end  of  your  days, — and  I  hope  they  may- 
be many, — I  want  you  to  know  that  there  is  one  man  who 
will  love  you  with  all  his  heart  and  all  his  soul  to  the  end 
of  his  days.  I  hope  you  will  be  happy.  It  is  my  great- 
est, my  only  wish.  Once  upon  a  time,  we  stole  away,  you 
and  I,  to  write  romances  of  love  and  adventure.  Even  then, 
you  were  my  heroine.  I  was  putting  you  into  my  poor 
story,  but  you  were  putting  your  dreams  into  yours,  and  I 
was  not  your  dream  hero.  Then  we  would  read  to  each 
other  what  we  had  written.  Do  you  remember  how  guard- 
edly we  read  and  how  stealthy  we  were  so  as  not  to  arouse 
suspicion  or  attract  attention  to  our  lair?  I  shall  never 
forget  those  happy  hours.  Every  line  I  wrote  and  read  to 
you,  Alix  dear,  was  of  you  and  for  you.  You  were  my 
heroine.  My  hero,  feeble  creature,  told  you  how  much  I 
loved  you,  and  you  never  suspected. 

I  am  telling  you  all  this  now,  when  my  hope  is  dead,  so 
that  you  may  know  that  my  love  for  you  began  when  you 
were  little  more  than  a  baby,  and  has  endured  to  this 
day  and  will  endure  forever.  I  pray  God  you  may  always 
be  happy.  And  now,  in  closing,  I  can  only  add  the  trite 
sentence, — which  I  recall  reading  in  more  than  one  novel 
and  which  I  was  imitative  enough  to  put  into  my  own  un- 
finished masterpiece:  If  ever  you  are  in  trouble  and  despair 
and  need  me,  I  will  come  to  you  from  the  ends  of  the 
earth.  I  mean  it,  Alix.  With  all  the  best  wishes  in  the 
world,  I  am  and  will  remain 

Yours  devotedly, 

DAVID. 


246  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

P.S.— I  have  just  looked  up  from  this  letter  to  catcH 
sight  of  myself  in  a  mirror  across  the  office.  I  have  to 
smile.  That  beastly  but  honourable  glass  reveals  the  true 
secret  of  my  failure  to  captivate  you.  How  could  any 
self-respecting  heroine  fall  in  love  with  a  chap  with  a  nose 
like  mine,  and  a  mouth  that  was  intended  for  old  Goliath 
himself,  and  cheek  bones  that  were  handed  down  by  Te- 
cumseh,  and  eyes  that  squint  a  little — but  I  daresay  that's 
because  they  are  somewhat  blurred  at  this  particular  in- 
stant. I  am  reminded  of  the  "  Yank "  who  had  his  nose 
shot  off  at  Chateau  Thierry.  He  said  that  now  that  the 
Germans  didn't  have  anything  visible  to  train  their  artil- 
lery on,  the  war  would  soon  be  over.  He  had  lost  his  nose 
but  not  his  sense  of  the  ridiculous.  I  have  managed  to 
retain  both. 

Up  in  that  bare,  dust-laden  room,  with  the  two 
candles  burning  at  her  elbows,  sat  Alix.  There  were 
tears  in  her  eyes,  a  wistful  little  smile  on  her  lips. 
She  was  reading  again  the  clumsy  lines  David  had 
written  in  those  long-ago  days  of  adolescence.  Now 
they  meant  something  to  her.  They  were  stilted,  com- 
monplace expressions;  she  would  have  laughed  at  them 
had  they  been  written  by  any  one  else,  and  she  still 
would  have  been  vastly  amused,  even  now,  were  it  not 
for  the  revelations  contained  in  his  letter.  And  the 
postscript, — how  like  him  to  have  added  that  whimsical 
twist!  He  wanted  her  to  smile,  even  though  his  heart 
was  hurt. 

Ten  years!  Ten  years  ago  they  had  sat  opposite 
each  other  at  this  dusty  table,  their  heads  bent  to 
the  task,  their  brows  furrowed,  their  hands  reaching 
out  to  the  same  bottle  of  ink,  their  souls  athrill  with 
romance.  And  she  was  writing  of  a  handsome,  incred- 


MR.  GILFILLAN  IS  PUZZLED  247 

ibly  valiant  hero,  whilst  he — he  was  writing  of  her! 
Time  and  again  his  hand,  in  seeking  the  ink,  had 
touched  the  hand  of  his  heroine, — she  remembered  once 
jabbing  her  pen  into  his  less  nimble  finger  as  she  went 
impatiently  to  the  fount  of  romance,  and  he  had  ex- 
claimed with  a  grimace :  "  Gee,  you  must  have  struck  a 
snag,  Alix !  "  She  recalled  the  words  as  of  yesterday, 
almost  as  of  this  very  moment,  and  her  arrogant  re- 
joinder, "Well,  why  can't  you  keep  your  hand  out  of 
the  way?" 

She  was  always  hurting  him,  and  he  was  always  pa- 
tient. She  was  always  sorry,  and  he  was  always  for- 
giving. She  was  superior  in  her  weakness,  he  was  gentle 
in  his  strength. 

And  his  heroine?  She  read  through  the  mist  that 
filled  her  eyes  and  saw  herself.  The  lofty  heroine  wooed 
by  the  poor  and  humble  musician  who  crept  up  from  un- 
utterable depths  to  worship  unseen  at  her  feet !  "  The 
Phantom  Singer !  "  The  lover  she  could  not  see  because 
her  starry  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  peak!  And  yet 
he  stood  beneath  her  casement  window  and  sang  her 
to  sleep,  lulled  her  into  sweet  dreams, — and  went  his 
lonely  way  in  the  chill  of  the  morning  hours,  only  to 
return  again  at  nightfall. 

She  looked  up  from  the  sheet  she  held.  She  stared, 
not  into  space,  but  at  the  face  of  David  Strong,  sitting 
opposite, — the  phantom  singer.  It  was  as  plain  to  her 
as  if  he  were  actually  there.  She  looked  into  his  deep 
grey  eyes,  honest  and  true  and  smiling. 

What  was  it  he  said  in  his  letter?  About  his  nose 
and  mouth  and  eyes?  They  were  before  her  now.  That 
keen,  boyish  face  with  its  coat  of  tan, — its  broad,  whim- 
sical mouth  and  the  white,  even  teeth  that  once  on  a 


248  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

elarc  had  cracked  a  walnut  for  her;  its  rugged  jaw 
and  the  long,  straight  nose;  its  wide  forehead  and 
the  straight  eyebrows ;  and  the  thick  hair  as  black  as 
the  raven's  wing,  rumpled  by  fingers  that  strove  des- 
perately to  encourage  a  recalcitrant  brain;  and  those 
big,  bony  hands,  so  large  that  her  little  brown  paws 
were  lost  in  them;  and  the  broad  shoulders  hunched 
over  the  table,  supported  by  widespread  elbows  that 
encroached  upon  her  allotted  space  so  often  that  she 
had  to  remind  him:  "I  do  wish  you'd  watch  what 
you're  doing,"  and  he  would  get  up  and  meekly  recover 
the  scattered  sheets  of  paper  from  the  floor.  Ugly? 
David  ugly?  Why,  he  was  beautiful! 

Suddenly  her  head  dropped  upon  her  arms,  now  rest- 
ing on  David's  manuscript ;  she  sobbed. 

"  Oh,  Davy, — Davy,  I  wish  you  were  here  I  I  wish 
you  were  here  now !  " 

The  creaking  of  the  stairs  startled  her.  She  half 
arose  and  stared  at  the  open  door,  expecting  to  see — 
the  ghost!  Goose-flesh  crept  out  all  over  her.  The 
ghost  that  people  said  came  to — 

The  very  corporeal  presence  of  Courtney  Thane  ap- 
peared in  the  doorway. 

For  many  seconds  she  was  stupefied.  She  could  see 
his  lips  moving,  she  knew  he  was  speaking,  she  could 
see  his  smile  as  he  approached,  and  yet  only  an  unintel- 
ligible mumble  came  to  her  ears. 

" — and  so  I  cut  across  the  field  and  ventured  in  where 
angels  do  not  fear  to  tread,"  were  the  first  words  that 
possessed  any  degree  of  coherency  for  her. 

She  hastily  thrust  the  precious  manuscript  into  the 
drawer.  He  stopped  several  feet  away  and  looked 
about  the  room  curiously,  his  gaze  coming  back  to  her 


MR.  GILFILLAN  IS  PUZZLED  249 

after  a  moment.  The  light  of  the  candles  was  full  on 
her  face. 

"  Well,  of  all  the  queer  places,"  he  said.  "  What  in 
the  world  brings  you  here?  I  thought  no  one  ever 
entered  this  house,  Alix." 

"  I  have  not  been  inside  this  house  in  ten  years," 
she  said,  struggling  for  control  of  herself.  "  I  came 
today  to — to  look  for  some  papers  that  were  left  here. 
I  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  when  you  came  up."  She 
picked  up  her  gloves  from  the  table. 

"  It's  cold  here.  Do  you  think  it  was  wise  for  you  to 
sit  here  in  this  chilly —  Gad,  it's  like  an  ice-house  or  a 
tomb.  Better  let  me  give  you  my  coat."  He  started 
to  remove  his  overcoat.  There  was  an  anxious,  solici- 
tous expression  in  his  eyes. 

"  No, — no,  thank  you.  I  am  quite  warm, — and  I 
shall  be  as  warm  as  toast  after  I've  walked  a  little  way. 
I  must  be  going  now,  Mr.  Thane."  She  took  a  few 
steps  toward  the  door. 

"  Are  you  going  away  without  blowing  the  candles 
out?  "  he  inquired. 

She  halted.  She  felt  herself  trapped.  She  did  not 
want  to  be  alone  in  the  dark  with  him. 

"  If  you  will  go  ahead  while  there  is  light,  I  will 
follow — "  The  solution  came  suddenly.  "  How  stupid  I 
There  is  nothing  to  prevent  us  carrying  the  candles 
downstairs  with  us,  is  there?  Will  you  take  one, 
please?  " 

She  returned  to  the  table  and  took  up  one  of  the 
candlesticks. 

"  I've  been  terribly  worried  about  you,  Alix,"  he 
said,  without  moving.  "  How  wonderful  it  is  to  see  you 
again, — to  see  what  is  really  you  and  not  the  girl  I've 


250  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

seen  in  dreams  for  the  past  few  endless  nights.  You 
in  the  flesh,  you  with  your  beautiful  eyes,  you  whose 
lips — oh,  God,  I — I  have  been  nearly  mad,  Alix.  A 
thousand  times  I  have  felt  you  in  my  arms, — you've 
never  been  out  of  them  in  my  thoughts.  I — " 

"  Please — please!  "  she  cried,  shrinking  back  and  put- 
ting her  hands  to  her  temples. 

Still  he  did  not  move.  There  was  a  gentleness  in  his 
voice,  a  softness  that  disarmed  her.  It  was  not  the 
voice  of  a  conqueror,  rather  it  was  that  of  a  suppliant. 

"  I  am  not  worthy  to  touch  the  hem  of  your  gar- 
ment," he  went  on,  an  expression  of  pain  leaping  swiftly 
to  his  eyes.  "  I  am  most  unworthy.  My  life  has  not 
been  perfect.  I  have  done  many  things  that  I  am 
ashamed  of,  things  I  would  give  my  soul  to  recall.  But 
my  love  for  you,  Alix  Crown,  is  perfect.  All  the  good 
that  God  ever  put  into  me  is  in  this  feeling  I  have  for 
you.  You  are  the  very  soul  of  me.  If  you  tell  me  to 
go  away,  I  will  go.  That  is  how  I  love  you.  You  do 
believe  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart  and  soul,  don't 
you,  Alix?  You  do  believe  that  I  would  die  for  you?  " 

Now  she  was  looking  into  his  eyes  across  the  candle 
flames.  David's  features  had  vanished.  She  saw  noth- 
ing save  the  white,  drawn  face  of  the  man  whose  voice, 
sweet  with  passion,  fell  upon  her  ears  like  the  murmur 
of  far-off  music.  She  felt  the  warm  thrill  of  blood  rush- 
ing back  into  her  icy  veins,  surging  up  to  her  throat, 
to  her  trembling  lips,  to  her  eyes. 

"  I — I  don't  know  what  to  think — I  don't  know  what 
to  believe,"  she  heard  herself  saying. 

He  came  a  step  or  two  nearer.  Her  eyes  never  left 
his.  She  tried  to  look  away. 

"  I  want  you  to  me  mine  forever,  Alix.    I  want  you 


MR.  GILFILLAN  IS  PUZZLED  251 

to  be  my  wife.  I  want  you  to  be  with  me  to  the  end 
of  my  life.  I  cannot  live  without  you.  Do  not  send 
me  away  now.  It  is  too  late." 

Her  knees  gave  way.  She  sank  slowly  to  the  bench, 
! — and  still  she  looked  into  his  gleaming  eyes. 

He  came  to  her.  She  was  in  his  arms.  His  face 
was  close  to  hers,  his  breath  was  on  her  cheek.  .  ...  . 

*'  No !  No ! "  she  almost  shrieked,  and  wrenched  her- 
self free.  "  Not  now !  Not  here !  Give  me  time — give 
me  tune  to  think ! " 

She  had  sprung  to  her  feet  and  was  glaring  at  him 
with  the  eyes  of  an  animal  at  bay.  He  fell  back  in 
astonishment. 

"  You — you  had  no  right  to  follow  me  here,"  she 
was  crying.  "  You  had  no  right !  This  place  is  sacred. 
It  is  sanctuary."  Her  voice  broke.  "  My  mother  was 
born  in  this  room.  She  died  in  this  room.  And  I  was 
born  here.  Go !  Please  go  ! " 

He  controlled  himself.  He  held  back  those  words 
that  were  on  his  tongue,  ready  to  be  flung  out  at  her: 
"  Yes,  and  in  this  room  you  behaved  like  hell  with 
David  Strong !  "  But  he  checked  them  in  time.  He 
lowered  his  head. 

"  Forgive  me,  Alix,"  he  staid  abjectly.  "  I — I  did 
not  know.  I  was  wrong  to  follow  you  here.  I  could  not 
help  myself.  I  was  mad  to  see  you.  Nothing  could 
have  stopped  me."  Ho  looked  up,  struck  by  a  sudden 
thought.  "  You  call  this  sanctuary.  It  is  a  sacred 
place  to  you.  Will  you  make  it  sacred  to  me?  Promise 
here  and  now,  in  this  sanctuary  of  yours,  to  be  my 
wi£^  and  all  my  life  it  shall  be  the  most  sacred  spot 
on  earth." 

She  turned  her  head  quickly  to  look  at  David  Strong. 


252  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

A  startled,  incredulous  expression  leaped  into  her  eyes. 
He  was  not  there.  By  what  magic  had  he  vanished? 
She  had  felt  his  presence.  He  was  sitting  there  a  mo- 
ment ago,  his  tousled  head  bent  down  over  the  pad  of 
paper, — she  was  sure  of  it !  Then  she  realized.  A  wave 
of  relief  surged  over  her.  He  was  not  there  to  hear 
this  man  making  love  to  her  in  the  room  where  he  had 
poured  out  his  soul  to  her.  She  experienced  a  curious 
thrill  of  exultation.  David  could  never  take  back 
those  unspoken  words  of  love.  She  had  them  safely 
stored  away  in  that  blessed  drawer! 

A  flush  of  shame  leaped  to  her  cheeks.  She  could 
not  banish  the  notion  that  he, — honest,  devoted  David, 
— had  seen  her  in  this  man's  arms,  clinging  to  him,  giv- 
ing back  his  passionate  kisses  with  all  the  horrid  rap- 
ture of  a —  She  stiffened.  Her  head  went  up.  She 
faced  the  man  who  had  robbed  David. 

"  I  cannot  marry  you,"  she  said  quietly.  The  spell 
was  gone.  She  was  herself  again.  "  I  do  not  love  you.'* 

He  stared,  speechless,  uncomprehending. 

"  You — you  do  not  love  me?  "  he  gasped. 

"  I  do  not  love  you,"  she  repeated  deliberately. 

"  But,  good  God,  you — you  couldn't  have  kissed  me 
as  you — " 

"Please!" 

" — as  you  did  just  now,"  he  went  on,  honestly  be- 
wildered. "You  put  your  arms  around  my  neck, — 
you  kissed  me — " 

"  Stop!  Yes,  I  know  I  did,— I  know  I  did.  But  it 
was  not  love, — it  was  not  love !  I  don't  know  what  it 
was.  You  have  some  dreadful,  appalling  power  to — 
Oh,  you  need  not  look  at  me  like  that  !  I  don't  care  that 
for  your  scorn.  Call  me  a  fool,  if  you  like, — call  me 


MR.  GILFILLAN  IS  PUZZLED  253 

anything  you  like.  It  is  all  one  to  me  now.  What's 
done,  is  done.  But  it  can  never  happen  again.  I  will 
not  even  say  that  I  am  ashamed,  for  in  saying  so  I 
would  be  confessing  that  I  was  responsible  for  my  ac- 
tions. I  was  not  responsible.  That  is  all,  Mr.  Thane. 
No  doubt  you  are  sincere  in  asking  me  to  be  your 
wife.  No  doubt  your  love  for  me  is  sincere.  I  should 
like  to  think  so — always.  It  would  help  me  to  forget  my 
own  weakness.  I  am  going.  I  want  you  to  leave  this 
house  before  I  go,  Mr.  Thane." 

She  spoke  calmly,  evenly,  with  the  utmost  self-pos- 
session. 

"  I  can't  let  you  go  like  this,  Alix  1  I  can't  take 
this  as  final.  You — you  must  care  for  me.  How  can  I 
think  otherwise?  In  God's  name,  what  has  happened 
to  turn  you  against  me?  You  owe  me  more  of  an 
explanation  than — " 

**  You  are  right,"  she  interrupted.  "  I  do  owe  you 
an  explanation.  This  is  not  the  time  or  the  place  to 
give  it.  If  you  will  come  to  see  me  tomorrow,  I  will 
tell  you  everything.  It  is  only  fair  that  you  should 
know.  But  not  now." 

"  Has  some  one  been  lying  about  me?  "  he  demanded, 
his  eyes  narrowing. 

She  waited  an  instant  before  replying. 

"  No,  Mr.  Thane,"  she  said ;  "  no  one  has  been  lying 
about  you." 

He  took  up  his  hat  from  the  table. 

"  I  will  come  tomorrow,"  he  said.  At  the  door  he 
paused  to  say :  "  But  I  am  not  going  to  give  you  up, 
Alix.  You  mean  too  much  to  me.  I  think  I  under- 
stand. You  are  frightened.  I — I  should  not  have  come 
here." 


254  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"  Yes,  I  teas  frightened,"  she  cried  out  shrilly.  "  I 
was  frightened, — but  I  am  not  afraid  now." 

She  had  moved  to  Thane's  side  of  the  table,  and 
there  she  stood  until  she  heard  his  footsteps  on  the 
little  porch  outside. 

She  was  in  an  exalted  frame  of  mind  as  she  hurried 
from  the  house.  The  short  October  day  had  turned 
to  night.  For  a  moment  she  paused,  peering  ahead. 
A  queer  little  thrill  of  alarm  ran  through  her.  She 
had  never  been  afraid  of  the  dark  before.  But  now: 
she  shivered.  A  great  uneasiness  assailed  her.  She 
listened  intently.  Far  up  the  hard  gravel  road  she 
heard  the  sound  of  footsteps,  gradually  diminishing. 
He  was  far  ahead  of  her  and  walking  rapidly. 

At  the  gate  she  stopped  again.  Then  she  struck  out 
resolutely  for  home, — the  Phantom  Singer  was  beside 
her.  She  was  not  afraid. 

A  farm-hand,  leaning  on  the  fence  at  the  lower  cor- 
ner of  the  yard,  scratched  his  head  in  perplexity. 

"Well,  here's  a  new  angle  to  the  case,"  he  mused 
sourly.  "  I'm  up  a  tree  for  sure.  Why  the  devil  should 
Miss  Crown  be  meeting  him  out  there  in  this  old  de- 
serted house.  My  word,  it  begins  to  look  a  trifle  spicy. 
It  also  begins  to  look  like  a  case  that  ought  to  be 
'dropped  before  it  gets  too  hot.  I  guess  it's  up  to  me 
to  see  my  dear  old  Uncle  Charlie  What's-His-Name." 

Whereupon  Mr.  Gilfillan  set  off  in  the  wake  of  the 
girl  who  had  employed  him  to  catch  the  masked  invader. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

BRINGING    UP    THE    PAST 

WEBSTER  wore  a  troubled  expres- 
§  sion  when  he  appeared  for  dinner  that  same 

^^  evening.  He  was  late.  If  such  a  thing  were 
believable,  his  kindly  blue  eyes  glittered  malevolently 
as  they  rested  upon  the  face  of  Courtney  Thane,  who 
had  taken  his  place  at  table  a  few  minutes  earlier.  The 
fat  little  man  was  strangely  preoccupied.  He  was  even 
gruff  in  his  response  to  Mr.  Pollock's  bland  inquiry  as 
to  the  state  of  his  health. 

"  How's  your  liver,  Charlie?  "  inquired  the  genial 
editor.  This  amiable  question  was  habitual  with  Mr. 
Pollock.  He  varied  it  a  little  when  the  object  of  his 
polite  concern  happened  to  be  of  the  opposite  sex; 
then  he  gallantly  substituted  the  word  "  appetite."  It 
was  never  necessary  to  reply  to  Mr.  Pollock's  ques- 
tion. In  fact,  he  always  seemed  a  little  surprised  when 
any  one  did  reply,  quite  as  if  he  had  missed  a  portion 
of  the  conversation  and  was  trying  in  a  bewildered  sort 
of  way  to  get  the  hang  of  it  again. 

"  Same  as  it  was  yesterday,"  said  Charlie.  "  I 
don't  want  any  soup,  Maggie.  Yes,  I  know  it's  bean 
soup,  but  I  don't  want  it,  just  the  same." 

"  Going  on  a  hunger  strike,  Charlie?  "  inquired  Doc 
Simpson. 

"  Sh !     He's  reducing,"  scolded  Flora  Grady. 

^  Chat's  on  your  mind,  Charlie?"  asked  Courtney. 
255 


256  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

Charlie  swallowed  hard.  He  made  a  determined  ef- 
fort and  succeeded  in  recovering  some  of  his  old-time 
sprightliness. 

"  Nothing,  now  that  I've  got  my  hat  off." 

"Have  you  heard  the  latest  news,  Charlie?"  in- 
quired Mrs.  Pollock,  a  thrill  of  excitement  in  her  voice. 

He  started,  and  looked  up  quickly.  "  There's  been 
so  blamed  much  news  lately,"  he  muttered,  "  I  can't 
keep  track  of  it." 

"  Well,  this  is  the  greatest  piece  of  news  we've  had 
in  ages,"  said  the  poetess.  "  Wedding  bells  are  to  ring 
in  our  midst.  Somebody  you  know  very  well  is  going 
to  be  married." 

Mr.  Webster's  heart  went  to  his  boots.  He  stared 
open-mouthed  at  the  speaker. 

"  Oh,  my  Lord !  "  he  almost  groaned.  "  Don't  tell 
me  she  has  promised  to  marry —  "  He  broke  off  to 
glare  venomously  at  Thane. 

"  Don't  blame  me  for  it,  Charlie,"  exclaimed  the 
latter.  "  I  am  as  innocent  as  an  unborn  babe.  Charge 
it  to  woman's  wiles."  He  laughed  boisterously,  un- 
naturally. 

Mr.  Pollock  spoke.  "  The  next  issue  of  the  Sun  will 
contain  the  formal  announcement  of  the  engagement 
of  the  most  popular  and  beloved  young  lady  in  Win- 
domville.  No  doubt  it  will  be  old  news  by  that  time, — 
next  Thursday, — but  publication  in  the  press  gives  it 
the  importance  of  officialty." 

"  We  may  congratulate  ourselves,  however,  that  we 
are  not  to  lose  her,"  said  Mrs.  Pollock.  "  She  is  to 
remain  in —  " 

"Whe-when  is  it  to  take  place?"  groaned  Charlie, 
moisture  starting  out  on  his  brow. 


BRINGING  UP  THE  PAST  257 

"That,"  began  Mr.  Pollock,  "is  a  matter  which 
cannot  be  definitely  announced  at  present,  owing  to  cer- 
tain family — er — ah — conditions.  In  addition  to  this, 
I  may  say  that  there  is  also  the  children  to  consider, 
as  well  as  the  township  trustee  and,  to  an  extent,  the 
taxpayer.  The —  " 

"  All  I've  got  to  say,"  grated  Charlie,  "  is  that  the 
police  ought  to  be  consulted,  first  of  all." 

"  The  police !  "  exclaimed  Angie  Miller. 

"The — the  what?"  gasped  Furman  Hatch,  lifting 
his  head  suddenly.  He  was  very  red  in  the  face.  "  I'd 
like  to  know  what  the  devil  the  police  have  to  do  with 
it?" 

Charlie  took  a  look  at  Angie  Miller's  face,  and  then 
the  truth  dawned  upon  him.  He  sank  back  in  his  chair 
so  suddenly  that  the  legs  gave  forth  an  ominous  crack. 

"  Don't  do  that !  "  cried  Margaret  Slattery  sharply. 
"  You  know  them  chairs  are  not  made  of  iron.  And  I 
don't  want  you  flopping  all  over  me  when  I'm  passing 
the  stew—  " 

"  Yes,  sir !  "  boomed  Charlie,  who  had  collected  his 
wits  by  this  time,  and  was  pointing  his  finger  accus- 
ingly at  Mr.  Hatch.  "  The  police  have  simply  got  to 
be  called.  It's  going  to  take  half  the  force,  including 
Bill  Foss,  to  keep  me  from  drinking  the  heart's  blood  of 
my  hated  rival.  Ladies  and  gents,  that  infernal,  low- 
down  villain  over  there  has  come  between  me  and — 
But  nobody  shall  say  that  Charles  Darwin  Webster  is 
a  poor  loser !  Say  what  you  please  about  him,  but  do 
not  say  he  is  a  short  sport.  It  breaks  my  heart  to  do 
it,  but  I'm  coming  around  there  to  shake  hands  with 
you,  old  Tintype.  I'm  going  to  congratulate  you,  but 
I'm  never  going  to  get  through  hating  you." 


258  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

He  arose  and  bolted  around  the  table.  Mr.  Hatch 
got  to  his  feet  and  the  long  and  the  short  man  clasped 
hands. 

"  Put  her  there,  old  boy  1  I've  already  made  up  my 
mind  what  my  wedding  present  is  going  to  be.  The 
day  before  the  wedding  I'm  coming  in  and  order  a  dozen 
photographs  of  myself, — pay  for  'em  in  advance.  And 
I'm  going  to  give  every  darned  one  of  'em  to  the  bride, 
so's  she  can  stick  'em  up  all  over  the  house  just  to  make 
you  feel  at  home,  you  blamed  old  bachelor.  And  as  for 
you,  Miss  Angelina  Miller,  the  very  topmost  height  of 
my  ambition  will  be  reached  in  less  than  two  minutes 
after  the  ceremony.  Because,  then  and  there,  I'm. 
going  to  kiss  you.  Bless  you,  my  children.  As  old  Rip 
Van  Winkle  used  to  say,  '  may  you  live  long  and 
brosper.'  " 

Having  delivered  himself  of  this  felicitous  speech,  the 
somewhat  relieved  Mr.  Webster  wiped  his  brow. 

"  What  did  he  say?  "  quaked  old  Mrs.  Nichols,  put- 
ting her  hand  to  her  ear. 

"  Says  he  hoped  they'd  be  happy,"  bawled. old  Mr. 
Nichols,  close  to  her  ear. 

"Pass  the  bread,  Doc,"  said  Mr.  Hatch,  getting 
pinker  and  pinker. 

"  When's  it  to  take  place,  Angie?  "  inquired  Charlie, 
resuming  his  seat.  He  cast  a  sharp  look  at  Courtney. 
The  young  man  shifted  his  gaze  immediately. 

*'  As  I  explained  to  Mr.  Pollock,  everything  depends 
on  my  aunt,"  said  Angie  composedly.  "  She  is  very 
old, — eighty-three,  in  fact." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  your  aunt  objects  to  your 
marrying  old  Tintype,"  exclaimed  Charlie. 

"  Not  at  all,"  replied  Angie,  somewhat  tartly. 


BRINGING  UP  THE  PAST  259 

"  You  see,  it's  this  way,"  volunteered  Mr.  Pollock. 
"  Miss  Angie  is  the  sole  support  of  a  venerable  and 
venerated  aunt  who  lives  in  Frankfort.  That  is  a 
thing  to  be  considered.  Her  duty  to  her  father's 
sister — " 

Courtney  interrupted,  chuckling.  "  It's  too  much  to 
ask  of  any  woman.  I  suppose  it  must  take  nearly  all 
you  earn,  Miss  Miller,  to  support  your  aged  relative, 
so  naturally  you  do  not  feel  like  taking  on  Mr.  Hatch 
immediately." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  around  the  table. 

"  I  see  by  the  Chicago  Tribune,"  said  Mr.  Pollock, 
after  a  hurried  gulp  of  coffee,  "  that  there's  likely  to 
be  a  strike  of  the  street-car  men  up  there." 

"  You  don't  say  so,"  said  Doc  Simpson,  looking  so 
concerned  that  one  might  have  been  led  to  suspect  that 
he  was  dismayed  over  the  prospect  of  getting  to  his 
office  the  next  day. 

"  What's  the  world  coming  to?  "  sighed  Maude  Baggs 
Pollock  nervously.  "  Strikes,  strikes  everywhere. 
'Murder,  bloodshed,  robbery,  revolution — " 

"  Next  thing  we  know,"  put  in  Charlie  Webster,  with- 
out looking  up  from  his  plate,  '*  God  will  strike,  and 
when  He  does  there'll  be  hell  to  pay,  begging  your  par- 
lion,  ladies,  for  using  a  word  that  sounds  worse  than 
it  tastes." 

"  I  use  it  every  day  of  my  life,"  said  Miss  Flora 
Grady.  "It's  a  grand  word,  Charlie,"  she  added,  a 
little  defiantly. 

"Times  have  changed,"  remarked  Mr.  Pollock 
blandly.  "  It  wasn't  so  very  long  ago  that  women 
said  *  pshaw  '  when  they  wanted  to  let  off  steam.  Then 
they  got  to  saying  '  shucks,'  and  from  that  they  pro- 


260  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

gressed  to  *  darn/  and  now  they  say  *  damn '  without 
a  quiver.  Only  yesterday  I  heard  my  wife  say  some- 
thing that  sounded  suspiciously  like  '  dammit  to  hell  * 
when  she  upset  a  bottle  of  ink  on  her  desk.  She  hasn't 
stubbed  her  toe  against  a  rocking-chair  lately,  thank 
goodness." 

Doc  Simpson  stopped  Courtney  as  he  was  starting 
upstairs  after  dinner.  The  dentist  was  unsmiling. 

"  Say,  Court,  I'm  running  a  little  close  this  week. 
Been  so  much  excitement  a  lot  of  patients  have  for- 
gotten all  about  their  teeth.  Can  you  let  me  have  that 
ten  you  borrowed  last  week?  " 

"  Sure,"  said  Courtney,  in  his  most  affable  manner. 
"  I'll  hand  it  to  you  tomorrow.  I'll  give  it  to  you  now 
if  you'll  wait  till  I  run  upstairs  and  get  it  out  of  my 
trunk.  That's  my  bank,  you  know." 

"  Tomorrow'll  do  all  right,"  said  Doc,  a  trifle 
abashed. 

"  Can  I  see  you  a  second,  Mr.  Thane?  "  called  Miss 
Grady,  when  he  was  halfway  up  the  stairs. 

He  stopped  and  smiled  down  at  her.  "  I  hope  you'll 
forgive  me  if  I  don't  come  down,  Miss  Flora.  My  knee 
is  still  on  the  blink.  It  hurts  worse  to  go  downstairs 
than  it  does  up." 

"  I'll  come  up,"  said  Miss  Grady  promptly.  "  You 
remember  those  roses  I  ordered  for  you  last  week? 
Well,  I  had  to  pay  cash  for  them,  including  parcel 
post.  You  owe  me  seven  dollars  and  thirteen  cents." 

"  I'm  glad  you  spoke  of  it.  I  hadn't  forgotten  it, 
of  course,  but — I  simply  neglected  to  square  it  up  with 
you.  Have  you  change  for  a  twenty,  Miss  Flora?  " 

"  Not  with  me." 

"  I'll  hand  it  to  you  tomorrow.     Seven-thirteen,  you 


BRINGING  UP  THE  PAST  261 

say?  Shall  we  make  it  seven-fifteen?"  He  favoured 
her  with  his  most  engaging  smile,  and  Miss  Grady,  who 
thought  she  had  steeled  her  heart  against  his  blandish- 
ments, suffered  a  momentary  relapse  and  said,  "  No 
hurry.  I  just  thought  I'd  remind  you." 

He  failed  completely,  however,  to  affect  the  sus- 
ceptibilities of  Miss  Mary  Dowd,  who  presently 
rapped  at  his  door,  and  rapped  again  when  he  called 
out  "  Come  in."  He  opened  the  door. 

"  Pardon  me,  Mr.  Thane,  for  coming  up  to  speak  to 
you  about  your  bill.  Will  it  be  convenient  for  you 
to  let  me  have  the  money  this  evening?  " 

She  did  not  soften  the  dun  by  offering  the  usual 
excuse  about  "  expenses  being  a  little  heavier  this 
month  than  we  expected,"  or  that  she  "hated  to  ask 
him  for  the  amount." 

"Is  it  three  or  four  weeks,  Miss  Molly?  "  he  in- 
quired, taking  out  an  envelope  and  a  pencil. 

"  Four  weeks  today." 

"  Sixty  dollars."  He  jotted  it  down.  "  I  cannot  let 
this  opportunity  pass  to  tell  you  how  thoroughly  satis- 
fied I  have  been  with  everything  here,  Miss  Molly.  The 
table  is  really  extraordinarily  good.  I  don't  see  how 
you  can  do  it  for  fifteen  dollars  a  week,  including 
room."  He  replaced  the  envelope  in  his  pocket,  and 
smiled  politely,  his  hand  going  to  the  door  knob. 

"  We  couldn't  do  it,  Mr.  Thane,  unless  we  stuck 
pretty  closely  to  our  rule, — that  is,  of  asking  our 
patrons  to  pay  promptly  at  the  end  of  every  week." 

"  It's  really  the  only  way,"  he  agreed. 

"  So  if  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  let  me  have  the 
amount  now,  I  will  be  very  much  obliged  to  you." 

He  stepped  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  ostensibly  to 


268  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

be  nearer  a  light,  and  took  out  his  purse.    While  count- 
ing out  the  bills,  he  cast  frequent  glances  down  into  the 
lower  hall.    The  buzz  of  conversation  came  up  from  the 
/"lounge." 

"  I  think  you  will  find  the  proper  amount  here,  Miss 
Molly,"  he  said,  after  restoring  the  purse  to  his  pocketf 
She  took  the  bank-notes  and  counted  them. 
"Quite  correct,  Mr.  Thane.  Thank  you.  By  the 
way,  I  have  been  meaning  to  ask  how  much  longer  you 
contemplate  remaining  with  us.  Pastor  Mavity  has 
been  inquiring  for  room  and  board  for  his  sister,  who 
is  coming  on  from  Indianapolis  to  spend  several  months 
in  Windomville.  If  by  any  chance  you  are  thinking  of 
vacating  your  room  within  the  next  few  days,  I  would 
be  obliged  if  you  would  let  me  know  as  soon  as  possible 
in  order  that  I  may  give  Mr.  Mavity  an  answer." 

"  I  think  I  shall  be  leaving  shortly,  Miss  Dowd.  I 
can  let  you  know  in  a  day  or  two,"  said  he  stiffly.  "  I 
am  afraid  your  winters  are  too  severe  for  me.  Good 
night, — and  thank  you  for  being  so  patient,  Miss 
Dowd." 

Meanwhile,  Miss  Angie  Miller  had  taken  Charlie 
Webster  off  to  a  corner  of  the  "  lounge  "  remote  from 
the  fireplace.  She  was  visibly  excited. 

"  I  had  a  letter  in  this  afternoon's  mail  from  my 
uncle,  Charlie,"  she  announced  in  subdued  tones.  "  My 
goodness,  you'll  simply  pass  away  when  you  read  it." 

"Where  is  it?"  demanded  Charlie  eagerly. 

"  I  haven't  even  shown  it  to  Furman,"  said  she,  look- 
ing over  her  shoulder.  "  I've  been  wondering  whether 
I  ought  to  let  him  read  it  first." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  he  promptly.     "  It's  none  of  his 


BRINGING  UP  THE  PAST  263 

business.  This  is  between  you  and  me,  Angie.  Let's 
have  a  look  at  it." 

"  I  don't  think  you'd  better  read  it  here,"  she  whis- 
pered nervously.  "It — it  is  very  private  and  con- 
fidential." 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Charlie.  "  I'll  sneak  up- 
stairs with  it,  Angie." 

"  Well,  act  as  if  you  are  looking  out  of  the  window," 
she  said,  and  when  his  back  was  turned  she  produced 
the  letter  from  its  hiding  place  inside  her  blouse. 

II 

Charlie  retired  to  his  room  a  few  minutes  later. 
There  he  perused  the  following  letter,  written  on  the 
stationery  of  Beck,  Blossom,  Fredericks  &  Smith,  At- 
torneys-at-law,  New  York  City: 

MY  DEAR  NIECE: 

Pardon  my  delay  in  replying  to  your  letter  of  recent 
date.  I  have  been  very  busy  in  court  and  have  not  been 
in  a  position  to  devote  even  a  little  of  my  time  to  your 
inquiry.  Your  second  letter  reached  me  yesterday,  and 
I  now  make  amends  for  my  previous  delinquency  by  an- 
swering it  with  a  promptness  most  uncommon  in  lawyers. 

The  firm  of  which  I  am  a  member  appeared  in  1912  for 
the  plaintiff  in  the  case  of  Hitter  vs.  Thane.  Our  client 
was  a  young  woman  residing  in  Brooklyn.  The  defendant 
was  Courtney  Thane,  the  son  of  Howard  Thane,  and  no 
doubt  the  young  man  to  whom  you  refer.  In  any  case, 
he  was  the  grandson  of  Silas  Thane,  who  lived  in  your 
part  of  the  State  of  Indiana.  We  were  demanding  one 
hundred  thousand  dollars  for  our  client  Miss  Hitter  was 
a  trained  nurse.  Young  Thane  had  been  severely  injured 
in  an  automobile  accident.  If  your  Courtney  Thane  is  the 


264  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

same  as  mine,  he  will  be  walking  with  a  slight  limp.  His 
left  leg  was  badly  crushed  in  the  accident  to  which  I 
refer.  For  several  months  he  was  unable  to  walk.  Upon 
his  removal  from  St.  Luke's  Hospital  to  his  father's  home 
in  Park  Avenue,  a  fortnight  after  the  accident,  our  client 
was  employed  as  a  nurse  on  the  case.  This  was  early  in 
the  spring  of  1912.  In  June  the  Thane  family  went  to 
the  Berkshires,  where  they  had  rented  a  house  for  the 
summer.  Our  client  accompanied  them.  Prior  to  their 
departure,  Thane,  senior,  had  settled  out  of  court  with 
the  occupants  of  the  automobile  with  which  his  son's  car 
had  collided  in  upper  Broadway.  His  son  was  alone  in 
his  car  when  the  accident  occurred,  but  there  were  a  num- 
ber of  witnesses  ready  to  testify  that  he  was  driving  at  a 
high  rate  of  speed,  regardless  of  traffic  or  crossings.  If 
my  memory  serves  me  correctly,  his  father  paid  something 
like  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  to  the  three  persons  in- 
jured. That,  however,  is  neither  here  nor  there,  except  to 
illustrate  the  young  man's  disregard  for  the  law. 

Miss  Hitter  had  been  on  the  case  a  very  short  time  before 
he  began  to  make  ardent  love  to  her.  She  was  an  ex- 
tremely pretty  girl,  two  years  his  senior,  and,  I  am  con- 
vinced, a  most  worthy  and  exemplary  young  woman.  She 
became  infatuated  with  the  young  man.  He  asked  her  to 
marry  him.  (Permit  me  to  digress  for  a  moment  in  order 
to  state  that  while  Courtney  Thane  was  in  his  freshman 
year  at  college  his  father  was  obliged  to  pay  out  quite  a 
large  sum  of  money  to  a  chorus-girl  with  whom,  it  appears, 
he  had  become  involved.)  To  make  a  long  story  short,  our 
client,  trusting  implicitly  to  his  honour  and  submitting  to 
the  ardour  of  their  joint  passion,  anticipated  the  marriage 
ceremony  with  serious  results  to  herself.  When  she  dis- 
covered that  he  had  no  intention  of  marrying  her,  she  at- 
tempted suicide.  Her  mother,  on  learning  the  truth,  went 
to  Thane's  parents  and  pleaded  for  the  righting  of  the 
wrong.  Howard  Thane  had,  by  this  time,  lost  all  patience 


BRINGING  UP  THE  PAST  265 

with  his  son.  He  refused  to  have  anything  to  do  with  the 
matter.  The  young  man's  mother  ordered  Miss  Hitter's 
mother  out  of  the  apartment  and  threatened  to  have  her 
arrested  for  blackmail.  Shortly  after  this  episode,  we  were 
consulted  by  Mrs.  Hitter,  much  against  the  wishes  of  her 
daughter,  who  shrank  from  the  notoriety  and  the  disgrace 
of  a  lawsuit.  The  elder  Thane  was  adamant  in  his  decision 
that  his  son  should  marry  the  girl,  who,  he  was  fair 
enough  to  admit,  was  a  young  woman  of  very  superior 
character  and  who,  he  was  convinced,  had  been  basely 
deceived.  The  mother,  on  the  other  hand,  was  relentlessly 
opposed  to  the  sacrifice  of  her  son.  We  took  the  matter  to 
court.  On  the  morning  of  the  first  day  of  the  trial,  before 
the  opening  of  court,  the  defendant's  counsel  came  to  us 
with  a  proposition.  They  offered  to  settle  out  of  court  for 
twenty-five  thousand  dollars.  In  the  end,  we  accepted  fifty 
thousand,  and  the  case  was  dismissed.  Afterwards  counsel 
for  the  other  side  informed  us  that  the  elder  Thane  turned 
his  son  out  of  his  home  and  refused  to  have  anything  more 
to  do  with  him.  I  understand  the  young  man  went  to 
Europe,  where  he  subsisted  on  an  allowance  provided  by 
his  mother.  Thane,  senior,  died  shortly  after  this.  Our 
client,  I  am  pained  to  say,  died  with  her  babe  in  child- 
birth. 

You  may  be  interested  to  know,  my  dear  niece,  that 
Mrs.  Thane  married  soon  after  her  husband's  death.  Her 
second  husband  was  a  young  French  nobleman,  many  years 
her  junior.  He  was  killed  in  the  war,  I  think  at  Verdun. 
I  understand  she  is  now  living  in  this  city.  Her  present 
name  escapes  me,  but  I  know  that  her  widowhood  has  been 
made  endurable  by  a  legacy  which  happens  to  be  one  in 
name  only.  In  other  words,  he  left  her  the  title  of 
Countess. 

If  I  can  be  of  any  further  service  to  you,  my  dear  niece, 
pray  do  not  hesitate  to  call  upon  me.  Believe  me  to  be  .  .  . 
etc.,  etc. 


266  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

Within  ten  minutes  after  the  perusal  of  this  very 
convincing  indictment,  Charlie  Webster  was  on  his  way 
to  Alix's  home.  He  was  quite  out  of  breath  when  he 
presented  himself  at  the  front  door,  and  his  first  words 
to  Alix  were: 

"  While  I'm  getting  my  breath,  Alix,  you  might  pre- 
pare yourself  for  a  shock." 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE    DISAPPEARANCE    OF    ROSABEL    VICK 

EARLY  the  next  morning,  the  telephone  in  town- 
ship assessor  Jordan's  house  rang.  Annie  Jor- 
dan was  "  setting "  the  breakfast  table.  She 
waited  for  the  call  to  be  repeated;  she  was  not  sure 
whether  the  bell  had  rung  thrice  or  four  times.  Their 
call  was  "  Party  J,  ring  four."  Four  sharp  rings  came 
promptly.  She  looked  at  the  kitchen  clock.  It  lacked 
five  minutes  of  seven. 

"  Gee,"  she  grumbled,  "  I  didn't  know  anybody  had 
to  get  up  as  early  as  I  do."  Taking  down  the  receiver 
she  uttered  a  sweet  "  hello,"  because,  as  she  said, 
"  You  never  know  who's  at  the  other  end,  and  it's  just 
as  likely  to  be  him  as  not." 

"  Is  that  you,  Annie?  This  is  Mrs.  Vick.  May  I 
speak  to  Rosabel?  " 

"  Why,  Rosabel  isn't  here,  Mrs.  Vick." 

"What?" 

"  Rosabel  isn't  here." 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Then:  "Are  you  joking 
with  me,  Annie?  If  she  isn't  up  yet,  please  tell  her 
to—" 

"  Honest  to  goodness,  Mrs.  Vick,  she's  not  here.  I 
haven't  seen  her  since  day  before  yesterday." 

"  She  said  she  was  going  over  to  spend  the  night 
with  you.  She  left  home  about  four  yesterday.  Oh, 


268  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

my  goodness,  I — I — is  there  any  one  else  she  might 
have, — I'm  sure  she  said  you,  though,  Annie.  Can  you 
think  of  any  one  else?  She  took  her  nightdress — and 
things." 

"  She  always  comes  here,  Mrs.  Vick,"  said  Annie,  and 
felt  a  little  chill  creeping  over  her.  "  Still  she  may  have 
gone  to  Mrs.  Urline's.  She  and  Hattie  are  good 
friends.  Shall  I  call  up  and  ask?  I'll  ring  you  up  in 
a  couple  of  minutes." 

That  was  the  beginning.  Within  the  hour  the  whole 
of  Windomville  was  talking  about  the  strange  dis- 
appearance of  the  pretty  daughter  of  Amos  Vick, 
across  the  river.  Old  Jim  House,  the  handy-man  at 
Dowd's  Tavern,  inserted  his  shaggy  head  through  the 
dining-room  door  and  informed  the  editor  of  the  Sun 
in  a  far  from  ceremonious  manner  that  he  had  an 
"  item  "  for  the  paper. 

"  I'll  be  out  as  soon  as  I've  finished  breakfast,"  said 
Mr.  Pollock. 

"Well,  you  can't  say  I  didn't  tell  ye,"  said  Jim, 
and  withdrew  his  head.  "  No  wonder  there  ain't  ever 
anything  worth  readin'  in  that  pickerune  paper  of  his, 
Maggie,"  he  growled  to  Margaret  Slattery.  "  If  ever  I 
do  subscribe  for  a  paper,  it's  goin'  to  be  one  that's  got 
some  git  up  and  go  about  it.  Some  Injinapolis  er  Cin- 
cinnaty  paper,  b'gosh.  There's  Link  Pollock  settin' 
in  there  eatin'  pancakes  while  a  girl  is  bein'  missed  from 
one  end  of  the  township  to  the  other.  Bill  Foss  has — " 

"  What  girl?  "  demanded  Margaret. 

"  That  girl  of  Amos  Vick's.  They  ain't  seen  hide 
er  hair  of  her  sence  yesterday  afternoon.  Amos  is  over 
to  the  drug  store,  nearly  crazy  with  suspicion.  I  got 
it  all  figgered  out.  One  of  two  things  has  happened. 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  ROSABEL  VICK   269 

She's  either  run  off  to  get  married  er  else  she's  been 
waylaid  and — er — execrated  by  some  tramp.  Like  as 
not  the  very  feller  that  peeped  in  at  Alix  Crown's  win- 
der the  other  night.  'Twouldn't  surprise  me  a  particle 
if  she  was  found  some'eres  er  other  with  her  head  beat 
in  or  somethin' !  And  Link  Pollock  jest  sits  in  there 
stuffin'  pan — " 

Margaret  Slattery  having  disappeared  abruptly  into 
the  dining-room,  Jim  grunted  and  edged  over  to  the 
kitchen  range,  where  Miss  Jennie  Dowd  was  busilyj 
engaged. 

"  I  ain't  got  nothin'  personal  ag'in  Link  Pollock,  Jen- 
nie," he  said,  sniffing  the  browning  batter  with  pleasur- 
able longing,  "  but  if  you  was  to  ask  me  I'd  say  his  wife 
is  twice  the  man  he  is,  and  a  little  over.  The  minute 
that  woman  is  a  widder  I'm  goin'  to  subscribe  for  the 
paper,  'cause  I  know  she'll —  What  say,  Jennie  ?  " 

"  Bring  me  another  scuttle  of  coal, — and,  for  good- 
ness' sake,  don't  smoke  that  pipe  in  my  kitchen." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  this  here  pipe?  "  demande'd 
Mr.  House  in  some  surprise. 

"  Never  mind.     I'm  busy." 

"  Yes, — cookin'  pancakes  for  that — all  right,  all 
right,  I'll  get  your  coal  fer  ye.  I  ought  to  be  out  helpin* 
Arnos  Vick  to  investigate  fer  his  daughter,  that's  where 
I  ought  to  be.  First  thing  you  know,  he'll  be  offerin* 
twenty-five  er  fifty  dollars  fer  her  and — say,  it  seems  to 
me  you  ought  to  be  more  interested  in  that  pore  lost 
girl  than  makin'  pancakes  fer  Link  Pollock."  He  pre- 
pared to  sit  down.  "  There's  a  lot  of  people  in  this 
here  town  payin'  him  two  dollars  a  year  fer  to  git  the 
news,  and  all  he  does  is  to —  All  right,  I  wasn't  goin' 
to  set  down  anyways.  I  was  jest  movin'  this  cheer  out 


270  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

o'  the  way  a  little,  so's  Maggie—  Yes,  and  with  coal 
as  high  as  it  is  now  and  a  lot  of  pore  people  starvin' 
and  freezin'  to  death,  it  exaggerates  me  considerable  to 
see  you  wastin' —  Well,  is  he  still  eatin',  Maggie?  " 

"  He's  beat  it  upstairs  to  change  his  carpet  slippers,'* 
announced  Margaret  Slattery  excitedly.  "  You  needn't 
make  any  more,  Miss  Jennie.  They're  all  beatin'  it, — 
all  except  Mr.  Thane,  and  he  says  he  don't  want  any 
more.  He  says  he  ain't  feelin'  well  and  thinks  he'll  go 
up  to  his  room  and  lay  down  for  a  while." 

"Well,  seein's  you  don't  need  that  coal,  Jennie,  I 
guess  I'll  mosey  along  and  see  if  I  c'n  be  any  help  to 
Amos.  This  jest  goes  to  show  what  an  ijit  I'd  ha'  been 
to  let  my  pipe  go  out." 

Courtney  Thane  hung  over  the  little  stove  in  his  room, 
shivering  as  with  a  chill.  About  ten  o'clock  some  one 
knocked  at  his  door.  He  started  up  from  the  chair, 
his  gaze  fixed  on  the  door.  With  an  effort  he  pulled 
himself  together  and  inquired  who  was  there. 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  Mr.  Thane  ?  " 
asked  Miss  Molly  Dowd,  outside. 

"  Nothing,  thank  you."  After  a  moment's  inde- 
cision, he  crossed  over  and  opened  the  door.  "  It's 
awfully  good  of  you,  Miss  Molly.  There's  nothing 
really  the  matter  with  me.  I  was  awake  most  of  the 
night  with  a  pain  in  my  back, — something  like  lumbago, 
I  suppose.  I  was  afraid  at  first  it  was  my  old  pleurisy 
coming  back  for  another  visit,  but  it  seems  to  be  lower 
down.  .1  feel  much  better,  thank  you.  The  fresh  air 
will  do  me  good.  I  think  I'll  go  out  and  see  if  I  can  be 
of  any  assistance  to  poor  Vick.  Have  they  had  any. 
news  of  Rosabel?" 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  ROSABEL  VICK   271 

"  I  think  not.  They  have  telephoned  to  the  city  to 
ask  the  police  to  watch  out  for  her,  especially  at  the 
trains.  She's  been  terribly  depressed,  they  say,  since 
her  brother  went  to  the  Navy  training  school  up  near 
Chicago.  Amos  thinks  she  may  have  taken  it  into  her 
head  to  go  up  there  somewhere  to  be  near  him." 

"  It  is  possible.  She  was  devoted  to  her  brother.  I 
hope  nothing  worse  has  happened  to  her.  She  is  a 
sweet,  lovable  girl,  and  they  worshipped  her." 

Later  on,  as  he  was  standing  in  front  of  the  post- 
office,  smoking  a  cigarette,  Vick  came  up  in  Alix 
Crown's  automobile. 

The  former  had  been  to  the  city  to  consult  with  the 
police.  He  inquired  anxiously  if  any  word  had  been 
received  from  the  men  who  had  volunteered  to  search 
in  the  woods  and  along  the  river  bank  for  the  girl.  Re- 
ceiving a  reply  in  the  negative  from  several  of  the 
hangers-on,  he  turned  to  give  an  order  to  the  chauffeur. 
As  he  did  so,  his  gaze  fell  upon  Courtney,  who  was  on 
the  outer  edge  of  the  little  group  surrounding  the  car. 

After  a  moment  of  indecision,  the  young  man  pushed 
his  way  forward,  an  expression  of  deep  concern  in  his 
eyes. 

"  Morning,  Courtney,"  greeted  the  older  man,  ex- 
tending his  hand.  "  I'm  glad  to  see  you.  I  suppose 
you've  heard  about  Rosabel?" 

Thane  shook  hands  with  Rosabel's  father. 

"  I  wouldn't  be  worried  if  I  were  you,  Mr.  Vick. 
She'll  turn  up  all  right.  I  feel  sure  of  it.  If  there  is 
anything  in  the  world  I  can  do,  I  wish  you  would  say 
so,  Mr.  Vick.  Anything,  sir.  There  is  nothing  I 
wouldn't  do  for  you  and  Mrs.  Vick  and  Rosabel.  I 
adore  that  child.  Why,  I  get  positively  sick  all  over 


272  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

when  I  let  myself  think  that — but,  it's  impossible!  I 
feel  it  in  my  bones  she'll  come  home  sometime  today." 

Vick  pressed  the  young  man's  hand. 

"  I  wish  I  could  be  sure  of  that, — God,  I  wish  I  could 
be  sure,"  he  said,  with  a  little  catch  in  his  gruff  voice. 
"  I  don't  see  what  got  into  her  to  run  away  like  this. 
She  ain't  been  very  chipper  since  Cale  went  away,  you 
know.  Sort  of  sick  and  down  in  the  mouth.  Her 
mother's  heard  her  crying  a  good  bit  lately  up  in  her 
room.  I  promised  her  only  a  couple  of  days  ago  to 
take  her  up  to  Chicago  for  a  spell,  so's  she  could  see 
Cale  every  once  in  a  while.  So  it  can't  be  she's  gone 
off  on  her  own  hook  to  see  him,  knowin'  that  either  me  or 
her  mother  was  planning  to  go  up  with  her  next  week. 
Thank  you,  Courtney,  for  offering  to  help  us.  If  there's 
anything,  I'll  let  you  know.  We've  been  telegraphin' 
and  telephonin*  everywhere  to  see  if  we  can  get  track 
of  her,  and  we've  been  to  all  her  friends'  homes  to  ask 
if  they've  seen  her.  I  wish,  if  you  feel  like  it,  you'd 
go  over  and  see  Mrs.  Vick.  Maybe  you  can  cheer  her 
up,  encourage  her  or  something.  She's  terribly  worried. 
I — I  think  it  would  break  her  heart  if  anything  hap- 
pened to — to — "  His  lips  twisted  as  with  pain.  He 
bent  over  and  picked  a  burr  from  his  trousers'  leg. 

"  Buck  up,  old  fellow,"  said  Courtney,  a  ringing  note 
of  confidence  in  his  voice.  He  laid  his  hand  on  Vick's 
arm.  "  Tell  me  all  about  it.  When  did  she  leave  the 
house,  and  where  did  she  say  she  was  going?  " 

"  Yesterday  afternoon.  She  said  she  was  going  to 
spend  the  night  at  the  Jordans'.  She  kissed  her  mother 
good-bye, — just  as  she  always  does, — and  we  ain't  seen 
or  heard  anything  of  her  since.  Nobody  in  Windom- 
ville  saw  her.  Bill  Foss  is  afraid  she  may  have  been 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  ROSABEL  VICK   273 

waylaid  by  hoboes  down  along  the  river  road.  If — if 
that  happened  there'll  be  something  worse  than  lynchin' 
if  I  ever  lay  hands  on — " 

Thane  broke  in  with  an  oath. 

"  By  God,  I'll  do  the  job  for  you  if  I  get  hold  of 
him  first,  Vick.  I  could  set  fire  to  a  devil  like  that  and 
see  him  burned  alive  without  moving  a  muscle." 

"  I  can't  let  myself  believe  she's  met  with  any  such 
horrible  fate  as  that,  Courtney.  I  simply  can't  bear 
to  think  of  my  pretty  little  Rosie  in  the  hands  of — " 

"  Don't  think  about  it,  Vick.  I  believe  she  will  turn 
up  safe  and  sound  and —  By  the  way,  has  it  occurred 
to  you  that  she  may  have  eloped?  Was  she  in  love  with 
anybody?  Was  she  interested  in  any  young  fellow  that 
you  didn't  approve  of?  " 

"  She  never  spoke  of  being  in  love  with  anybody. 
She  never  even  gave  us  an  inklin'  of  such  a  thing.  She 
would  have  told  her  mother.  Why,  good  heavens, 
Courtney,  she  wasn't  much  more'n  a  little  girl!  She 
was  eighteen  her  last  birthday,  and  we  never  thought 
of  her  as  anything  but  a  child  just  out  of  short  dresses. 
Did  she  ever  speak  to  you  about  being  gone  on  any  of 
these  young  fellows  that  come  to  see  her?  She  liked 
you  tremendous,  Courtney, — and  I  didn't  know  but 
what  maybe  she  might  have  mentioned  something  to  you 
about  it  when  you  were  off  on  those  long  walks  to- 
gether. Some  of  the  times  when  you  used  to  take  a 
lunch  basket  and  go  off — " 

"  Not  a  word,"  broke  in  Courtney.  "  Why,  she  was 
just  like  a  kid,  laughing  and  singing  and  begging  me  to 
tell  her  stories  about  the  war,  and  life  in  New  York,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing.  She  used  to  read  to  me,  bless 
her  heart, — read  by  the  hour  while  I  smoked, — or  went 


274  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

to  sleep.  If  she  was  in  love  with  anybody  she  cer- 
tainly never  took  me  into  her  confidence." 

"  I — I  guess  there's  nothing  in  that  theory,"  said 
Amos  Vick,  shaking  his  head.  "  She  didn't  run  away 
with  anybody.  That's  out  of  the  question.  I'm  work- 
ing on  the  theory  that  she  sort  of  went  out  of  her  head 
or  something  and  wandered  away.  You  read  about 
cases  like  that  in  the  papers.  I  forget  what  they  call 
the  disease,  but  there's — " 

"  Aphasia,"  supplied  Courtney  absently.  His  gaze 
was  fixed  on  a  graceful,  familiar  figure  down  the  street. 

Alix  Crown  had  just  dismounted  from  her  horse  in 
front  of  the  library.  She  stood,  straight  and  slim,  on 
the  sidewalk  awaiting  the  approach  of  Editor  Pollock, 
who  was  hurrying  up  from  Assessor  Jordan's  house 
where  he  had  been  "  interviewing  "  Annie. 

A  warm  glow  shot  through  Courtney's  veins.  He  had 
held  that  adorable,  boyish  figure  tight  in  his  arms ! 
Nothing  could  rob  him  of  that  rapturous  thought, — 
nothing  could  deprive  him  of  those  victorious  moments. 
Amos  Vick's  voice  recalled  him. 

"  I'll  have  to  be  on  the  move,  Courtney.  Here  comes 
Bill  Foss.  He's  been  telephonin'  to  Litchtown,  down 
the  river.  I  do  wish  you'd  go  over  and  see  Lucinda. 
She'll  be  mighty  grateful  to  you." 

"  Don't  fail  to  call  on  me,  Mr.  Vick,  if  there's  any- 
thing I  can  do,"  called  out  Courtney  after  the  moving 
machine. 

He  did  not  take  his  eyes  from  Alix  until  she  dis- 
appeared through  the  library  door.  The  horse,  a  very 
fine  animal,  was  wet  with  sweat.  He  could  see,  even  at 
that  distance,  the  "  lather  "  on  her  flanks. 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  ROSABEL  VICK   275 

"  Any  news?  "  he  inquired  of  Pollock,  as  that  worthy 
came  up  panting. 

"  Nope.  Alix  Crown  is  just  back  from  Jim  Bagley's. 
Some  one  said  a  hired  man  of  his  had  seen  a  woman 
walking  across  the  pasture  yesterday  just  before  dark 
— out  near  the  old  Windom  place, — but  it  couldn't  have 
been  Rosie  Vick  because  she  had  no  way  to  get  across 
the  river  except  by  the  ferry,  and  she  didn't  come  that 
way,  Joe  Burk  swears.  Alix  saw  this  hired  man  and  he 
says  it  was  almost  dark  and  he  couldn't  be  sure  whether 
it  was  a  man  or  a  woman." 

A  greyish  pallor  spread  over  Courtney's  face.  He 
turned  away  abruptly  and  hurried  down  the  street.  He 
remembered  the  "skiff"  that  belonged  to  young  Cale, 
salvaged  some  years  before  on  the  abatement  of  a  Feb- 
ruary flood.  On  more  than  one  occasion  he  had  taken 
Rosabel  out  on  the  river  in  this  clumsy  old  boat,  twice 
at  least  to  the  base  of  Quill's  Window  where  she  had 
refused  to  land  because  of  the  dread  she  had  for  the 
gruesome  place. 

Cale  kept  his  boat  down  among  the  willows,  chained 
to  a  pole  he  had  driven  deep  in  the  bed  of  the  river. 
It  was  one  of  his  treasures.  He  had  fished  from  it  up 
and  down  the  stream ;  he  had  gone  forth  in  it  at  day- 
break for  wild  ducks  and  geese. 

Yes,  Thane  remembered  the  "skiff."  Strange  that  no 
one  else  had  thought  of  it.  Strange  that  even  Amos 
Vick  was  satisfied  she  could  not  have  crossed  the  river 
except  by  the  ferry.  He  wondered  whether  it  was  tied 
up  in  its  accustomed  place  over  yonder,  or  was  it  now 
on  this  side  of  the  river?  He  felt  a  strange  chill  in 
his  blood. 

He  was  nearing  the  library  when  Alix  came  out.     If 


276  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

she  saw  him  she  gave  no  sign.  She  crossed  the  side- 
walk, threw  the  bridle  rein  over  the  horse's  neck,  and 
swung  herself  gracefully  into  the  saddle.  Without  so 
much  as  a  glance  over  her  shoulder,  she  rode  off  at  a 
brisk  canter  in  the  direction  of  the  ferry.  He  knew  she 
was  on  her  way  to  see  Mrs.  Vick. 

The  R.  F.  D.  postman  making  his  rounds,  came  to 
Amos  Vick's  shortly  after  noon  that  day.  He  volun- 
teered a  bit  of  information.  Rosabel  had  given  him  a 
letter  when  he  stopped  the  day  before.  It  was  ad- 
dressed to  Caleb  Vick.  She  asked  him  how  long  he 
thought  it  would  take  the  letter  to  reach  its  destina- 
tion. When  he  told  her  that  it  might  be  delivered  to 
Cale  early  the  next  day,  she  thanked  him  and  returned 
to  the  house. 

He  thought  at  the  time  that  she  looked  "  kind  of 
white  around  the  gills." 

II 

Jim  Bagley  and  his  new  "hired  man,"  pursuing  a 
suggestion  made  by  the  latter,  went  to  the  top  of  Quill's 
Window  for  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  river  and  the  sur- 
rounding country.  The  sharp  eyes  of  the  Pinkerton 
man  descried  the  rowboat  under  the  willows  along  the 
opposite  bank  of  the  stream. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Bagley  and  several  companions 
came  upon  the  boat.  On  one  of  the  seats  lay  Rosabel 
Vick's  heavy  coat  and  the  black  fur  collar  she  was 
known  to  have  worn  when  she  left  home.  Under  the 
seat  in  the  stern  was  a  small  paper  bundle.  It  con- 
tained a  nightgown,  a  pair  of  black  stockings,  and 
several  toilet  articles. 

Across  the  river,  several  hundred  yards  above  Quill's 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  ROSABEL  VICE    277 

Window,  a  small  gravelly  "  sand-bar "  reached  out 
into  the  stream.  Here  the  practised  eyes  of  Gilfillan 
found  unmistakable  indications  of  a  recent  landing. 
The  prow  of  the  boat,  driven  well  out  upon  the  bar, 
had  left  its  mark.  Also,  there  were  two  deep  cuts  in 
the  sand  where  an  oar  had  been  used  in  pushing  off. 
It  was  impossible  to  make  out  footprints  in  the  loose, 
shifting  grave, 
j  Mr.  Gilfillan  pondered  deeply. 

"  That  boat  crossed  over  here  yesterday,"  he  re- 
flected. "  It's  pretty  clear  that  it  belongs  over  on  that 
side.  If  the  Vick  girl  came  over  in  it,  there's  no  use 
looking  for  her  on  this  side  of  the  river.  That  boat 
couldn't  have  got  back  to  the  other  side  unless  some- 
body rowed  it  over.  If  it  was  a  woman  I  saw  walking 
across  the  pasture  in  the  direction  of  the  river,  it  must 
have  been  this  girl.  Now — one  of  two  tilings  happened 
— in  case  it  was  the  Vick  girl.  Either  she  was  up  near 
that  old  house  before  I  got  there,  or  she  saw  me  when 
she  was  approaching,  and  turned  back.  In  either  case, 
she  had  an  object  in  hanging  around  that  house.  Now 
we  come  to  the  object.  Was  she  going  there  to  meet 
some  one?  If  so,  it  would  naturally  be  a  man. 

"  Now  let's  get  this  thing  straight.  Thane  crossed 
the  pasture  from  this  direction.  That's  positive, — 
because  I  followed  him.  It  is  a  dead  certainty  he  did 
not  meet  the  Vick  girl.  I  would  have  witnessed  any 
such  meeting.  The  fact  that  he  lived  at  her  father's 
house  for  several  weeks  may  have  something  to  do  with 
the  case, — but  that's  guesswork.  What  we  want  is 
facts.  This  much  is  certain.  I  did  not  see  Miss  Crown 
go  into  that  house, — but  I  did  see  her  come  out.  I 
never  was  so  paralysed  in  my  life.  It  is  clear,  there- 


278  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

fore,  that  she  was  in  there  before  either  I  or  Thane- 
came  upon  the  scene.  Now  the  question  is,  was  she 
there  to  meet  Thane?  I  doubt  it.  Things  begin  to  look 
a  little  clearer  to  me.  Suppose,  for  instance,  he  went 
out  to  that  big  hill  to  meet  some  one  else, — presumably 
the  Vick  girl,  and  that  they  had  planned  to  go  to  that 
old  deserted  house.  He  was  late.  So,  thinking  she 
had  gone  on,  he  hustled  across  the  field  and  received  the 
surprise  of  his  life.  Now,  we'll  say  the  Vick  girl  was 
over  there  waiting  for  him  when  Miss  Crown  came  to 
the  house, — a  thing  they  couldn't  have  foreseen  in  view 
of  the  fact  that  she  shunned  the  place.  Our  hero  comes 
up  and  enters  the  house  as  if  he  owned  it.  The  other 
girl  hangs  around  outside  till  it  gets  dark  enough  for 
her  to  risk  making  a  getaway  without  attracting  my 
attention, — in  case  she  saw  me.  She  beats  it  back  to 
the  river,  and  then,  being  afraid  that  I  saw  and  recog- 
nized her,  she  concludes  to  beat  it  to  somebody's  house 
over  in  the  next  county,  so's  she'll  have  an  alibi  if  I  go 
to  Miss  Crown  with  the  story.  Now,  that's  one  way  to 
look  at  it.  The  other  angle  is  that  she  was  jealous  and 
trailed  Thane  to  his  rendezvous,  as  my  old  friend  Nick 
Carter  would  say.  In  that  case, —  By  thunder !  "  He 
gave  vent  to  a  soft  whistle. 

"  In  that  case,  she  may  have  jumped  into  the  river 
and —  No,  that  doesn't  hang  together.  She  wouldn't 
have  gone  to  the  trouble  to  row  back  to  the  other  side. 
Wait  a  second!  Now,  let  me  think.  Here's  an  idea. 
We'll  suppose  somebody  waylaid  her  over  there  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river,  put  the  quietus  on  her  and 
chucked  her  into  the  water.  Then  he  rowed  across  here 
and  started  for  the  turnpike.  Seeing  me  and  also 
Thane,  he  turns  back.  It's  a  man  I  see  in  the  dark- 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  ROSABEL  VICE    279 

ness  instead  of  a  woman.  He  goes  back  to  the  boat, 
rows  over  to  the  other  side  again  and —  Holy  Mack- 
erel! Here's  a  new  one.  That  girl's  body  may  be 
lying  up  there  in  the  underbrush  at  this  instant. 
Dumped  there  by  the  murderer,  who  turned  back  after 
seeing  me — I'll  take  a  look !  " 

For  an  hour  Gilfillan  searched  through  the  under- 
brush along  the  bank.  Finally  he  gave  it  up  and  started 
toward  the  village.  He  found  the  town  in  a  state  of 
great  excitement.  Everybody  was  hurrying  down  to 
the  river.  Overtaking  an  old  man,  he  inquired  if  there 
was  any  news  of  the  missing  girl. 

"  They  say  she's  been  drownded,"  chattered  the  an- 
cient. "  My  daughter  says  they  found  her  things  in 
a  boat,  but  no  sign  of  her.  Did  you  ever  see  the  beat? 
They's  been  more  goin'  on  in  this  here  town  in  the  last 
week  than — " 

Gilfillan  hurried  on.  He  caught  Charlie  Webster  as 
he  was  leaving  the  warehouse. 

"  I  want  to  see  Miss  Crown  as  soon  as  possible,  Web- 
ster," he  said.  *'  Do  you  suppose  she  will  go  up  in  the 
air  if  I  mention  the  fact  that  I  know  she  was  with  Thane 
yesterday  up  in  that  old  house?  It's  a  rather  ticklish 
thing  to  spring  on  her  if  she — " 

"  It's  all  right,"  interrupted  Charlie.  "  I  talked  with 
her  about  it  last  night.  She  had  no  idea  he  was  coming 
there.  He  told  her  he  saw  her  from  across  the  pasture 
and  hustled  over.  She  was  surprised  almost  out  of  her 
skin  when  he  popped  in  on  her.  She  tells  me  she 
ordered  him  out  of  the  house." 

The  detective  was  thoughtful.  "  I  wonder  if  it  has 
occurred  to  Miss  Crown  that  Thane  might  have  mis- 
taken her  for  some  one  else  at  that  distance." 


280  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"  Not  so's  you'd  notice  it,"  declared  Charlie.  "  He 
knew  it  was  Alix  all  right.  She  isn't  in  any  doubt  on 
that  score." 

"  It  begins  to  take  shape,"  mused  Gilfillan.  "  He 
didn't  wait  for  her,  that's  all." 

"What  say?" 

"  I  was  just  thinking,"  replied  the  other.  "  Where  is 
Thane  at  the  present  moment,  Webster?  " 

"  He  just  went  off  in  an  automobile  with  Dick  Hurdle 
and  a  couple  of  fellows  to  stretch  one  of  Joe  Hart's  big 
fish  nets  across  the  river  down  at  the  Narrows,  five  or 
six  miles  below  here." 

"  Would  you  mind  inviting  me  up  to  your  room  at 
the  Tavern  for  a  little  while,  Webster?  " 

"  Well,  I  was  going  down  to  the  ferry.  There  are  half 
a  dozen  skiffs  down — " 

"  See  here,  Webster,  as  I  understand  it,  my  real 
job  is  to  find  out  all  I  can  about  this  chap  Thane.  I  am 
really  working  for  you,  not  for  Miss  Crown,  although 
she  is  putting  up  the  money.  I  am  just  as  thoroughly 
convinced  as  you  are  that  Thane  staged  that  masked 
robber  business  himself.  It's  an  old  gag,  especially  with 
lovers — and  occasionally  with  husbands." 

Charlie  grinned  sheepishly,  a  guilty  flush  staining  his 
rubicund  face. 

"  I  guess  I  might  as  well  confess  that  I  was  guilty  of 
something  of  the  sort  when  I  was  about  seventeen,"  he 
said.  "  That's  how  I  came  to  figger  out  that  maybe 
he  was  up  to  the  same  kind  of  heroism." 

"  Nearly  every  kid  has  done  the  same  thing.  It's  boy 
nature." 

"  I  reckon  that's  right.  I  fixed  it  for  a  boy  friend 
of  mine  to  jump  out  of  a  dark  place  one  night  when  I 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  ROSABEL  VICK    281 

was  walkin'  home  from  a  church  sociable  with  my  girl. 
He  had  false  whiskers  on.  I  helped  him  glue  them 
on, — and  he  had  an  awful  time  getting  'em  off.  Course 
when  he  jumped  out  and  growled  '  hands  up,'  I  just 
sailed  into  him  and  the  fur  flew  for  a  few  seconds.  Then 
he  run  like  a  whitehead.  It  didn't  work  out  very  well, 
however.  That  kid's  sister  got  onto  the  trick  and  told 
my  girl  about  it,  and — well,  I  almost  had  to  leave  town. 
But  it  ain't  a  game  for  a  grown-up  man  to  play,  and 
that's  what  I  think  this  feller  Thane  has  been  pulling." 

"  What  you  want  to  find  out,  before  it's  too  late,  is 
whether  Thane  is  all  that  he  professes  to  be,"  said  the 
other.  "  Well,  I'm  simply  sitting  tight  on  the  job, 
stalling  along  until  I  hear  from  our  people  in  New 
York.  They  have  cabled  England  to  find  out  whether 
he  was  connected  with  the  British  air  forces.  Now, 
what  I  want  to  do  is  to  get  into  that  fellow's  room  for 
ten  or  fifteen  minutes.  Can  you  fix  it?" 

"It— it  wouldn't  be  legal,"  protested  Charlie. 
"  You've  got  to  get  out  a  search  warrant." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I'm  not  planning  to  steal  any- 
thing," exclaimed  Gilfillan.  "  I  merely  want  to  get  into 
his  room  by  mistake.  That  happens  frequently, — you 
know." 

Charlie  was  finally  persuaded.  He  cast  an  apprehen- 
sive glance  down  the  road  leading  to  the  ferry,  searched 
the  Main  Street  for  observers,  and  then  led  the  way 
over  to  the  practically  deserted  Tavern. 

Half  an  hour  later  Mr.  Gilfillan  re-entered  Charlie's 
room. 

"  Remember  I  don't  know  where  you've  been  or  what 
you  were  up  to,"  warned  the  fat  man  firmly.  "  I'm  not 
a  party  to  this  nefarious — " 


282  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"Righto!"  said  the  detective  cheerily.  "Your 
skirts  are  clear.  They  are  immaculate.  Let's  beat  it." 

"Well,  what  did  you  find  out?"  inquired  Charlie, 
when  they  were  in  the  street  once  more.  He  was  burst- 
ing with  curiosity. 

"  In  as  much  as  you  don't  know  where  I  was  or  what 
I've  been  doing,  it  will  not  compromise  you  if  I  say 
that  I  found  a  thirty-eight  calibre  revolver  with  three 
empty  shells  in  the  cylinder.  I  also  found  a  theatrical 
make-up  box,  with  grease  paints,  gauze,  and  all  that. 
Also  currency  amounting  to  about  three  hundred  dol- 
lars. Nothing  incriminating,  nothing  actually  crooked. 
Simply  circumstantial  as  relating  to  recent  events  in 
your  midst,  Mr.  Webster." 

"  Makes  it  look  mighty  certain  that  he  was  the  feller 
with  the  mask,  don't  it?  Only  three  shots  were  fired, 
you  know.  I've  been  thinking  a  lot  about  what  you  said 
awhile  ago.  You  don't  think  that  he  had  anything  to 
do  with — with  putting  the  Vick  girl  out  of  the  way? 
You  spoke  about  him  being  mistaken  in  the  woman." 

"He  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  Webster.  I  told 
you  I  saw  a  figure  in  the  pasture  after  he  had  gone 
into  the  house.  If  it  was  the  Vick  girl,  she  was  cer- 
tainly alive  then.  He  went  straight  home  after  leaving 
that  house.  He  didn't  go  out  of  the  Tavern  again  last 
night,  that's  positive.  Now,  what  I  want  to  find  out  is 
this:  was  the  girl  in  love  with  him?  Was  there  any- 
thing between  them?  If  she's  at  the  bottom  of  the 
river  down  there,  it's  a  plain  case  of  suicide,  my  friend, 
and  people  do  not  take  their  own  lives  unless  there's 
a  mighty  good  reason.  With  a  young  girl  it's  usually 
a  case  of  unrequited  love, — or  worse.  According  to 
that  letter  Miss  Miller  had  from  New  York,  Thane  is 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  ROSABEL  VICK   283 

Stot  above  betraying1  ft  girl.  Of  coarse,  if  the  Vick  girl 
is  dead  and  left  nothing  behind  to  implicate  Thane,  it 
will  be  out  of  the  question  to  charge  him  with  being 
even  indirectly  responsible  for  her  death." 

"  The  main  thing,"  said  Charlie,  who  had  turned  a 
shade  paler  during  this  matter-of-fact,  cold-blooded 
analysis,  "  is  to  keep  Alix  Crown  from  falling  into  his 
clutches.  He's  a  bad  egg,  that  feller  is,  and  he's  made 
up  his  mind  to  win  her  by  fair  means  or  foul." 

"  Welly  if  she  falls  for  him  after  reading  that  law- 
yer's letter  and  when  she  hears  what  I  believe  to  be 
the  truth  about  that  heroic  episode  the  other  night, — 
why,  she  ought  to  get  what's  coming  to  her,  that's  all 
I  have  to  say,"  said  Mr.  Gilnllan  flatly.  «*  I've  dis- 
covered one  thing,  Mr..  Webster.  If  a  woman  makes 
up  her  mind  to  marry  a  man,  hell-fire  and  brimstone 
can't  stop  her.  The  older  I  get  and  the  more  I  see  of 
women,  the  more  I  am  convinced  that  vice  is  its  own 
reward.  I  guess  we'd  better 'stroll  down  to  the  river 
and  see  what's  doing." 

"I've  been  thinking,"  said  Charlie  as  they  walked 
along,  "  that  if  Thane  wasn't  in  the  British  Army  and 
wasn't  in  our  army,  then  he  must  be  a  slacker  and 
wanted  by  the  government  for — " 

"  Nothing  doing  on  that  line.  You  forget  he  was 
crippled  long  before  the  war.  He  couldn't  get  by  a 
medical  board.  They'd  turn  him  down  in  a  second. 
If  he  was  in  this  country  at  the  time  of  the  draft,  he 
would  have  had  no  trouble  getting  an  exemption.  What 
I  can't  understand  is  why  he,  a  New  Yorker,  should  be 
hiding  out  here  in  the  jungles  of  Indiana.  There's 
something  queer  about  that,  my  friend." 

"Kind  of  fishy,"  said  Charlie  darkly.     [Then  upon 


284.  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

reflection,  he  added  with  considerable  vehemence: 
"Damn  him!" 

Already  half  a  dozen  rowboats  were  out  in  the 
stream,  with  men  peering  over  the  sides  into  the  defep, 
slow-moving  water.  Burk's  Ferry  did  a  thriving  busi- 
ness. It  plied  back  and  forth  from  one  "  road-cut " 
to  the  other,  crowded  with  foot  passengers,  all  of  whom 
studied  the  water  intently.  Men,  women  and  children 
tramped  close  to  the  edge  of  both  banks.  People  spoke 
in  subdued  voices ;  an  atmosphere  of  the  deepest  solem- 
nity hung  over  the  scene. 

The  sky  itself  was  overcast;  a  raw  wind  moaned, 
through  the  trees,  sighing  a  requiem.  The  drab,  silent 
river  went  placidly,  mockingly  on  its  way  down  to  the 
sea,  telling  no  tales :  if  Rosabel  Vick  was  rolling,  glid- 
ing along  the  bottom,  gently  urged  by  the  current,  the 
grim  waters  covered  well  the  secret. 

The  word  went  from  lip  to  lip  that  motor-boats  were 
on  the  way  down  from  the  city,  with  police  officers  and 
grappling-hooks  and  men  experienced  in  the  gruesome 
business  of  "  dragging."  The  boss  of  the  railway  con- 
struction gang  at  Hawkins,  where  the  new  bridge  was 
being  built,  had  started  for  Windomville  with  a  quan- 
tity of  dynamite  to  be  exploded  on  the  bottom  of  the 
river  in  the  hope  and  expectation  of  bringing  the  body 
to  the  surface. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

OUT    OF   THE    NIGHT 

AL  afternoon  the  search  continued.  At  intervals 
and  at  widely  separated  points  dull  explosions 
took  place  on  the  bed  of  the  river,  creating 
smooth,  round  hillocks  that  lasted  for  the  fraction  of  a 
second  and  then  dissolved  into  swift-spreading  wave- 
lets, stained  a  dirty  yellow  by  the  upheaval  of  sand  and 
mud,  and  went  racing  in  ruffles  to  the  banks  which  they 
tenderly  licked  before  they  died.  White-bellied  fish, 
killed  by  the  shock  of  the  explosions,  came  to  the  sur- 
face and  floated  away, — scores  of  them,  large  and  small. 
Spider-like  grappling  hooks,  with  their  curving  iron 
prongs,  raked  the  bottom  from  side  to  side,  moving 
constantly  /downstream,  feeling  here,  there  and  every- 
where with  insensate  fingers  for  the  body  of  Rosabel 
Vick. 

A  pall  settled  over  the  river;  it  reached  far  beyond 
the  environs  of  Windomville,  for  Amos  Vick  was  a  man 
known  arid  respected  by  every  farmer  in  the  district. 

Night  came.  Courtney  Thane,  considerably  shaken 
by  the  tragedy,  set  out  immediately  after  dinner  for 
the  home  of  Alix  Crown.  He  had  been  silent  and  de- 
pressed at  dinner,  taking  his  little  part  in  the  conver- 
sation, which  dealt  exclusively  with  the  incomprehen- 
sible act  of  young  Rosabel  Vick. 

"  What  possible  reason  could  that  pretty  happy 
285 


286  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

young  girl  have  had  for  killing  herself?"  That  was 
the  question  every  one  asked  and  no  one  answered.  Mrs. 
Maude  Baggs  Pollock  repeatedly  asked  it  at  dinner,  and 
once  Thane  had  replied: 

"  I  still  don't  believe  she  killed  herself.  It  is  beyond 
belief.  If  she  is  out  there  in  the  river,  as  they  suspect, 
it  is  because  there  "was  foul  play.  Some  fiend  attacked 
her.  I  will  never  believe  anything  else,  Mrs.  Pollock. 
I  knew  her  too  well.  She  would  never  dream  of  killing 
herself.  She  loved  life  too  w«ll.  I  can't  help  feeling 
that  she  is  alive  and  well  somewhere,  that  they  will 
hear  from  her  in  a  day  or  two,  and  that —  " 

"  But  how  about  the  things  they  found  in  that 
boat?"  demanded  Doc  Simpson.  *' She  wouldn't  be  so 
heartless  as  to  play  a  trick  like  that  on  her  folks." 

Courtney's  answer  was  a  gloomy  shake  of  the  head. 

His  heart  was  pounding  heavily  as  he  trudged  up  the 
walk  to  Alix's  door.  He  knew  that  the  crisis  in  his  af- 
fairs was  at  hand.  She  had  asked  him  to  come.  He  had 
not  given  up  hope.  He  was  still  confident  of  his  power 
to  win  in  spite  of  lier  amazing  perversity.  Inconsist- 
ency, he  called  it.  Of  one  thing  he  was  resolved:  he 
would  brook  no  delay.  She  would  have  to  marry  him  at 
once.  He  wanted  to  get  away  from  Windomville  as 
soon  as  possible.  He  loathed  the  place. 

Hilda  came  to  the  door. 

"  Miss  Crown  is  over  at  Mr.  Vick's,"  she  announced. 
u  She's  not  at  home." 

He  stiffened.  **  I  had  an  appointment  with  her  for 
this  evening,  Hilda.  She  must  be  at  home." 

"  She  ain't,"  said  the  maid  succinctly. 

"  Did  she  leave  any  word  for  me?  " 

^  Not  with  me,  sir.     She  telephoned  to  Mrs.  Strong 


OUT  OF  THE  NIGHT  287 

this  evening  to  say  she  was  going'  to  stay  with  Mrs. 


"AH  night?" 

"  No,  sir.  The  car's  going  down  to  meet  her  at  the 
ferry  about  ten  o'clock." 

He  departed  in  a  very  unpleasant  frame  of  mind. 
This  was  laying  it  on  a  bit  thick,  he  complained.  If  she 
thought  she  could  treat  him  in  this  cavalier  fashion 
she'd  soon  find  out  where  she  "  got  off."  What  busi- 
ness had  she,  anyhow,  over  at  the  Vicks?  All  the  old 
women  in  the  neighbourhood  would  be  there  to  —  An 
idea  struck  him  suddenly. 

"  I'll  do  it,"  he  muttered.  "  I'll  have  to  go  over  some 
time,  so  why  not  now?  It's  the  decent  thing  to  do.  I'll 
go  tonight." 

He  hurried  up  to  his  room.  Opening  his  trunk,  he 
took  out  his  revolver,  replaced  the  discharged  shells  and 
stuck  it  into  his  overcoat  pocket.  Picking  up  the  little 
package  of  bank-notes,  he  fingered  them  for  a  moment 
and  then,  moved  by  an  impulse  for  which  he  had  no 
explanation,  he  not  only  counted  them  but  quickly 
stuffed  them  into  his  trousers'  pocket.  Afterwards  he 
was  convinced  that  premonition  was  responsible  for  this 
incomprehensible  act. 

He  crossed  the  ferry  with  several  other  people.  The 
moon  had  broken  through  the  clouds.  Its  light  upon 
the  cold,  sluggish  water  produced  the  effect  of  polished 
steel.  It  reminded  him  of  the  grey  surface  of  an  an- 
cient suit  of  armour.  The  crossing  was  slow.  He  could 
not  repress  a  shudder  when  he  looked  downstream  and 
saw  lights  that  seemed  to  be  fixed  in  the  centre  of  the 
river.  He  closed  his  eyes.  He  could  not  bear  to  look 
at  the  cold,  silent  water.  The  soft  splashing  against 


288  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

the  broad,  square  bow  of  the  old-fashioned  ferry  served 
to  increase  his  nervousness.  The  horrid  fancy  struck 
him  that  Rosabel  Vick  was  out  there  ahead  clawing  at 
the  slimy  timbers  in  the  vain  effort  to  draw  herself  out 
of  the  water.  ...  He  wished  to  God  he  had  not  come. 

He  was  the  first  person  off  the  ferry  when  it  came  to 
a  stop  on  the  farther  side  of  the  river.  Ahead  of  him 
lay  the  road  through  the  narrow  belt  of  trees  that  lined 
the  bank.  He  knew  that  a  scant  hundred  yards  lay 
between  the  river  and  the  open  road  beyond  and  yet  a 
vast  dread  possessed  him.  He  shrank  from  that  black 
opening  in  the  wall  of  trees  where  dead  leaves  rustled 
and  the  wind  whispered  secrets  to  the  barren  branches. 

He  fell  in  behind  a  couple  of  men  who  strode  fear- 
lessly into  the  dark  avenue.  After  him  came  two  men 
and  a  woman.  They  were  all  strangers  to  him,  so  far 
as  he  could  make  out,  but  he  felt  a  sense  of  security  in 
their  nearness.  He  gathered  that  they  were  bound  for 
Amos  Vick's.  Presently  they  came  to  the  open  road 
beyond  the  trees.  The  half  moon  rode  high  and  clear; 
the  figures  of  his  companions  took  shape,  dusky  and 
ghost-like ;  the  fences  alongside  the  road  became  visible, 
while  straw-ricks,  lone  trees  and  other  shadowy  objects 
emerged  from  the  maw  of  the  night.  Here  and  there 
in  the  distance  points  of  light  indicated  the  presence  of 
invisible  farmhouses,  while  straight  ahead,  a  mile  or 
more  away,  a  cluster  of  lights  marked  the  house  of 
Amos  Vick. 

As  he  drew  nearer,  Thane  was  able  to  count  the 
lights.  He  looked  intently  for  the  sixth  window,  an 
upstairs  corner  room  was  where  it  would  be, — but  there 
were  lights  in  only  five.  The  corner  window  was  dark. 


OUT  OF  THE  NIGHT  289 

He  knew  that  window  well.  ...  He  wished  he  had  a 
stiff  drink  of  whiskey. 

Half  a  dozen  automobiles  stood  at  the  roadside  in 
front  of  the  house.  He  stopped  beside  one  of  them  to 
look  at  his  wrist-watch.  It  was  half-past  eight.  Alix 
would  be  starting  home  in  less  than  an  hour.  No  doubt 
it  had  been  arranged  that  one  of  these  cars  was  to  take 
her  down  to  the  ferry.  He  had  seen  her  saddle  horse 
late  that  afternoon  standing  in  front  of  the  black- 
smith's shop,  evidently  waiting  to  be  re-shod. 

If  he  had  his  way, — and  he  was  determined  to  have 
it, — Alix  would  walk  with  him  to  the  ferry. 

As  he  turned  in  at  the  gate  he  observed  that  the 
woman  and  her  two  companions,  after  pausing  for  a 
moment  to  look  at  the  house,  continued  their  way  up  the 
road.  The  men  who  had  preceded  him  all  the  way  were 
already  on  the  front  porch.  He  followed  the  disap- 
pearing trio  with  his  eyes.  The  woman,  he  noticed  for 
the  first  time,  was  very  tall, — quite  as  tall  as  the  men. 
She  wore  a  shawl  over  her  head,  and  some  sort  of  a  long 
cloak. 

Setting  his  jaw  he  strode  up  the  walk,  looking  neither 
to  right  nor  left,  mounted  the  steps  where  many  a  night 
he  had  sat  with  Rosabel  beside  him,  and  after  passing 
a  group  of  low-voiced  neighbours,  knocked  on  the  closed 
door.  He  was  admitted  by  an  elderly  woman  who 
looked  askance  at  this  well-dressed  stranger. 

"  I  am  Mr.  Thane,  a  friend,"  he  said.  «  Will  you 
tell  Mrs.  Vick,  please?  " 

"  She's  upstairs,  and  I— I—  " 

"  I  think  she  is  expecting  me.  But, — wait.  I 
thought  I  might  be  able  to  comfort  her,  but  I  can  see 


290  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

by  jour  expression  that  she  isn't  feeling  up  to  seeing 
people.  I  came  over  primarily  to  see  if  there  is  any- 
thing I  can  do,  Madam.  You  see,  Rosabel  and  I  were 
great  pals."  His  voice  broke  a  little,  and  he  bit  his 
nether  lip. 

"  We've  finally  got  her  to  lie  down,"  said  the  woman. 
"  She's — she's  nearly  crazy  with  the  suspense  and — 
everything.  If  you'll  wait  a  little  bit,  I'll  find  out  if  she 
feels  like  seeing  you.  Alix  Crown  is  with  her.  She 
coaxed  her  to  stretch  out  on  the  bed.  Miss  Crown 
understands  these  things.  She  did  some  hospital  work 
(during  the  war —  " 

"  Yes,  I  know  Miss  Crown,"  he  interrupted. 

"  — and  saw  a  lot  of  suffering,  'specially  among 
mothers  who  came  to  see  their  crippled  and  sick  sons 
in  the  hospitals." 

"  Perhaps  if  you  were  to  tell  Miss  Crown  that  I  am 
here  she  could — but  no,  I  sha'n't  even  bother  Miss 
Crown.  She's  got  her  hands  full.  I  will  sit  down  and 
wait  awhile,  however.  If  by  any  chance,  you  should 
be  able  to  get  word  to  Mrs.  Vick  that  I  am  here,  I 
think  she  might  feel  like  seeing  me." 

"  I'll  see,"  said  the  woman  dubiously,  and  went  away. 

Courtney  sat  down  on  a  sofa  in  the  parlour.  He 
looked  around  the  lamp-lit  room.  .  ,  .  Over  in  the 
corner  was  the  upright  piano  on  which  Rosabel  used  to 
play  for  him.  He  could  see  her  now — the  shapely,  girl- 
ish back;  the  round,  white  neck  and  the  firm  young 
shoulders ;  the  tilt  of  her  head ;  the  strong,  brown  hands, 
— he  could  see  her  now.  And  she  used  to  turn  her  head 
and  smile  at  him,  and  make  dreadful  grimaces  when  this 
diversion  resulted  in  a  discord.  ...  He  got  up  sud- 
denly and  walked  out  into  the  dining-room. 


OUT  OF  THE  NIGHT  291 

Beyond,  in  the  kitchen,  he  heard  the  rumble  of  men's 
voices.  He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  opened 
the  door.  There  were  half  a  dozen  men  in  the  kitchen, 
and  one  of  them  was  Amos  Vick.  They  were  preparing 
to  go  out  into  the  night.  Vick's  face  was  haggard,  his 
garments  were  muddy,  his  long  rubber  boots  were  cov- 
ered with  sludge  and  sand.  Catching  sight  of  Thane 
in  the  doorway,  the  farmer  went  toward  him,  his  hand 
outstretched. 

"I'm  glad  you  came,  Courtney,"  he  said,  his  voice 
hoarse  but  steady.  **  Lucinda  will  be  pleased.  Does 
she  know  you're  here?  " 

"  I  sent  word  up,  but  if  she  doesn't  feel  like — " 

"  She'll  want  to  see  you.  We're  starting  out  again. 
Down  the  river."  (His  voice  shook  a.  little.)  "My 
soul, — boy, — you  look  as  white  as  a  sheet.  Here, — take 
a  good  swig  of  this.  It's  some  rye  that  Steve  White 
brought  over.  We  all  needed  it.  Help  yourself.  You've 
been  overdoing  a  little  today,  Courtney,  You're  not 
fit  for  this  sort  of —  That's  right!  That  will  brace 
you  up.  You  needed  it,  my  boy."  Courtney  drained 
half  a  tumbler  of  whiskey  neat.  He  choked  a  little. 

"  I  guess  we'd  better  be  starting,  Amos,"  said  Steve 
White. 

"  Take  me  along  with  you,  Mr.  Vick,"  cried  Court- 
ney, squaring  his  shoulders.  "  I  can't  stand  being  idle 
while—  " 

"  YouM  catch  your  death  of  cold,"  interrupted  Vick, 
laying  his  hand  on  the  young  man's  shoulder.  "  It'» 
mighty  fine  of  you  and  I — I  sha'n't  forget  it.  But 
you're  not  fit  for  an  all  night  job  like  this.  I  feel  sort 
of  responsible  for  you,  my  boy.  Your  mother  would 
never  forgive  me  if  anything  happened  to  you,  and  this 


292  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

is  a  time  when  we've  got  to  think  about  the  mothers. 
Good  night, —  God  bless  you,  Courtney." 

"  Good  night,  Amos." 

The  men  trooped  heavily  out  of  the  kitchen  door. 

Presently  he  heard  the  chugging  of  automobile  en- 
gines and  then  the  roar  as  they  sped  off  down  the  road. 
He  returned  to  the  parlour.  The  whiskey  had  given 
him  fresh  confidence. 

The  elderly  woman  was  talking  to  a  couple  of  men 
in  the  hall.  From  the  scraps  of  conversation  he  was 
able  to  pick  up,  he  gathered  that  they  were  reporters 
from  the  city.  She  invited  him  into  the  room. 

"  We  would  prefer  a  very  recent  picture,"  one  of  the 
men  was  saying.  "  Something  taken  within  the  last  few 
weeks,  if  possible.  A  snap-shot  will  do,  Madam." 

The  speaker  was  a  middle-aged  man  with  horn- 
rimmed spectacles.  His  companion  was  much  the 
younger  of  the  two.  The  latter  bowed  to  Thane,  who 
had  taken  a  position  before  the  fireplace  and  was  re- 
garding the  strangers  with  interest. 

"  I'll  have  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Vick,"  murmured  the 
woman.  "  I  don't  know  as  she  would  want  Rosabel's 
picture  printed  in  the  papers." 

"  It  would  be  of  incalculable  assistance,  Madam,  in 
case  she  has  run  away  from  home.  We  have  an  idea 
that  she  may  have  planted  those  garments  in  the  boat 
in  order  to  throw  people  off  the  track." 

"  Oh,  she — she  wouldn't  have  done  that,"  cried  the 
woman.  "  She  couldn't  be  so  heartless." 

"  You  overlook  the  possibility  that  her  mind  may  be 
affected.  Dementia  frequently  takes  the  form  of — er 
— you  might  say  unnatural  cunning." 


OUT  OF  THE  NIGHT  293 

"  I'll  speak  to  Mrs.  Vick.  There's  a  scrap-book  of 
Kodak  pictures  there  on  the  table.  I  was  looking 
through  it  today.  She  and  her  brother,  Cale,  made 
heaps  of  pictures.  You  might  be  looking  through  it 
while  I  go  upstairs." 

Thane  was  lighting  a  cigarette. 

"  Have  you  told  Miss  Crown  that  I  am  here?  "  asked 
he,  as  she  started  toward  the  stairs. 

"  She  says  she'll  be  down  in  a  few  minutes.  Mrs.  Vick 
wants  to  see  you  before  you  go." 

The  two  reporters  were  examining  the  contents  of  the 
scrap-book.  The  younger  of  the  two  was  standing  at 
the  end  of  the  little  marble-topped  table,  his  body 
screening  the  book  from  Courtney's  view. 

There  were  a  number  of  loose  prints  lying  between 
the  leaves  toward  the  end  of  the  book.  Rosabel  had 
neglected  to  paste  them  in.  The  man  with  the  horn- 
rimmed spectacles  ran  through  them  hastily.  He 
stealthily  slipped  two  of  these  prints  up  his  sleeve. 

Thane  would  have  been  startled  could  he  have  seen 
those  prints.  They  were  not  pictures  of  Rosabel  Vick, 
but  fair-sized,  quite  excellent  likenesses  of  himself! 

The  woman  returned  to  say  that  Mrs.  Vick  was  very 
much  upset  by  the  thought  of  her  daughter's  picture 
appearing  in  the  paper,  and  could  not  think  of  allowing 
them  to  use  it. 

The  elder  man  bowed  courteously.  "  I  quite  under- 
stand, Madam.  We  would  not  dream  of  using  the  pic- 
ture if  it  would  give  pain  to  the  unhappy  mother. 
Please  assure  her  that  we  respect  her  wishes.  Thank 
you  for  your  kindness.  We  must  be  on  our  way  back 
to  town.  Good  night,  Madam." 


294  QUILI/S  WINDOW 

"These  reporters  are  awful  nuisances,"  remarked 
Courtney  as  the  front  door  closed  behind  the  two  men. 
"Always  butting  in  where  they're  not  wanted." 

"  They  seemed  Tery  nice,"  observed  the  woman. 

"  I've  never  seen  one  that  wasn't  a  sneak,"  said  he, 
raising  his  voice  a  little.  The  whiskey  was  having  its 
effect. 

Mrs.  Vick  and  Alix  entered  the  room  together.  The 
former  came  straight  toward  the  young  man.  Her 
rather  heavy  face  was  white  and  drawn,  but  her  eyes 
were  wide  and  bright  with  anxiety.  There  was  no  trace 
of  tears.  He  knew  there  would  be  no  scene,  no  hys- 
terics. Lucinda  Vick  was  made  of  stern,  heroic  stuff. 
As  he  advanced,  holding  out  his  hands,  he  noticed  that 
she  was  fully  dressed.  She  could  be  ready  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice  to  go-  to  her  daughter. 

"  Oh,  Courtney ! "  she  cried,  and  a  little  spasm  of 
pain  convulsed  her  face  for  a  fleeting  second  or  two. 
Her  Toice  was  husky,  tight  with  strain. 

He  took  her  eold,  trembling  hands  in  his. 

a  It's  inconceivable,"  he  cried.  "  I  can't  believe  it, 
I  won't  believe  it..  You  poor,  poor  thing!  " 

"It's  true.  She'a  gone.  My  little  girl  is  gone.  I 
could  curse  God."  She  spoke  m  a  low,  emotionless 
Toice.  "  Wny  should  He  have  taken  her  in  this  way? 
What  have  we  done  to  deserve  this  cruelty?  Why 
couldn't  He  have  let  her  die  in  my  arms,  with  her  head 
upon  my  breast, — where  it  belongs  ?  " 

"  Don't  give  up — yet,"  he  stammered,  confounded  by 
this  amazing  exhibition  of  self-control.  "  There  is  a 
chance, — yea,  there  is  a  ehanee,  Mrs,  Vick.  Don't  give 
up.  Be — be  brave." 


OUT  OF  THE  NIGHT  295 

She  shook  her  head.  "  She  is  dead,"  came  from  her 
stiff  lips,  and  that  was  all 

He  laid  his  arm  across  her  shoulder.  "  I  wish  to  God 
it  was  me  instead  of  her,"  he  cried  fervently.  "  I  would 
take  her  place — willingly,  Mrs.  Vick." 

"  I — I  know  you  would,  Courtney,"  said  she,  looking 
into  his  eyes.  "  You  were  her  best  friend.  She  adored 
you.  I  know  you  would, —  God  bless  you !  " 

He  looked  away.  His  gaze  fell  upon  Alix,  standing 
in  the  door.  His  eyes  brightened.  The  hunted  expres- 
sion left  them.  An  eager,  hungry  light  came  into  them. 
She  was  staring  at  him.  Gradually  he  came  to  the 
realization  that  she  was  looking  at  him  with  unspeak- 
able horror. 

Mrs.  Vick  was  speaking.  He  hardly  heard  a  word 
she  uttered. 

"  It  was  kind  of  you  to  come,  Courtney.  Thank  you. 
I  must  go  now.  I — I  can't  stand  it, — I  can't  stand  it  1" 

She  left  him  abruptly.  Alix  stood  aside  to  allow  her 
to  pass  through  the  door.  They  heard  her  go  up  the 
stairs,  heavily,  hurriedly. 

*'  Alix !  "  he  whispered,  holding  out  his  hands. 

She  did  not  move. 

"  I  went  up  to  the  house  to  see  you,"  he  hurried  on. 
"  They  told  me  you  were  here.  I —  " 

Her  gesture  checked  the  eager  words. 

"  You  snake !  "    She  fairly  hissed  the  word. 

He  drew  back,  speechless.  She  came  a  few  steps 
nearer. 

"  You  snake !  "  she  repeated,  her  eyes  blazing. 

"  Wha —  What  do  you  mean?  "  he  gasped,  a  fiery 
red  rushing  to  his  face. 


296  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"  Would  you  have  died  for  the  Ritter  girl?  " 

A  bomb  exploding  at  his  feet  could  not  have  produced 
a  greater  shock.  His  mouth  fell  open;  the  colour 
swiftly  receded,  leaving  his  face  a  sickly  white. 

"  Who  the  hell—  "  he  began  blankly. 

"  Be  good  enough  to  remember  where  you  are,"  cried 
Alix,  lowering  her  voice  as  she  glanced  over  her  shoul- 
der. "  I  can  say  all  I  have  to  say  to  you  in  a  very  few 
words,  Mr.  Thane.  Don't  interrupt  me.  I  have  been 
a  fool, — a  stupid  fool.  We  need  not  go  into  that. 
Thank  heaven,  I  happen  to  be  made  of  a  little  stronger 
stuff  than  others  who  have  come  under  your  influence. 
You  would  have  married  me, — yes,  I  believe  that, — 
because  it  would  have  been  the  only  way.  I  have  the 
complete  history  of  your  betrayal  of  the  Ritter  girl. 
I  know  how  your  leg  was  injured.  I  know  that  you 
were  kicked  out  of  the  American  Ambulance  and  ad- 
vised to  leave  France.  I  don't  believe  you  ever  served 
in  the  British  Army.  I  have  every  reason  to  believe 
that  you  poisoned  my  dog,  and  that  you, — were  the 
man  who  came  to  my  window  the  other  night.  And  I 
suspect  that  you  are  the  cause  of  poor  Rosabel  Vick's 
suicide.  Now  you  know  what  I  think  of  you.  My  God, 
how  could  you  have  come  here  tonight?  These  people 
trusted  you, — they  still  trust  you.  Until  now  I  did 
not  believe  such  men  as  you  existed.  You —  " 

"  I  had  nothing,  absolutely  nothing  to  do  with  Rosa- 
bel," he  cried  hoarsely.  He  was  trembling  like  a  leaf. 
"  Don't  you  go  putting  such  ideas  into  their  heads. 
Don't  you —  " 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  likely  to  do  that,"  she  interrupted 
scornfully.  "I  shall  not  add  to  their  misery.  If  I 
could  prove  that  you  betrayed  that  poor,  foolish  child, 


OUT  OF  THE  NIGHT  297 

— then  I  would  see  to  it  that  you  paid  the  price.  But 
I  cannot  prove  it.  I  only  know  that  she  would  have 
been  helpless  in  your  hands.  Oh,  I  know  your  power ! 
I  have  felt  it.  And  I  did  not  even  pretend  to  myself 
that  I  loved  you.  What  chance  would  she  have  had  if 
she  loved  and  trusted  you?  I  shudder  at  the  thought 
of —  If  Amos  Vick  should  even  suspect  you  of  wrong- 
ing his  child,  he  would  not  wait  for  proof.  He  would 
tear  you  to  pieces.  You  may  be  innocent.  That  is  why 
I  am  giving  you  your  chance.  Now,  go !  " 

"  You  certainly  will  give  me  the  opportunity  to  de- 
fend myself,  Alix.  Am  I  to  be  condemned  unheard? 
If  you  will  allow  me  to  walk  to  the  ferry  with  you —  " 

"  And  who  is  to  act  as  my  bodyguard  ?  "  she  inquired 
with  a  significant  sneer.  "  Go !  I  never  want  to  see 
your  face  again." 

With  that,  she  left  him.  He  stood  perfectly  still, 
staring  after  the  slender,  boyish  figure  until  it  was 
hidden  from  view  by  the  bend  of  the  stairway. 

His  eyes  were  glassy.  Fear  possessed  his  soul.  Sud- 
denly he  was  aroused  to  action. 

"  I'd  better  get  out  of  this,"  he  muttered. 

His  hand  clutched  the  weapon  in  his  coat  pocket  as 
he  strode  swiftly  toward  the  front  door.  Once  outside 
he  paused  to  look  furtively  about  him  before  descend- 
ing the  porch  steps.  Several  men  were  standing  near 
the  gate.  The  porch  was  deserted.  He  wondered  if 
Amos  Vick  was  down  there  waiting  for  him.  Then  he 
remembered  what  Alix  had  said  to  him :  "  These  people 
trust  you, — they  still  trust  you."  What  had  he  to 
fear?  He  laughed, — a  short,  jerky,  almost  inaudible 
laugh, — and  went  confidently  down  the  walk.  As  he 
passed  the  little  group  he  uttered  a  brief  "  good  night '* 


298  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

to  the  men,  and  was  rewarded  by  a  friendly  response 
from  all  of  them. 

Down  the  moonlit  road  he  trudged,  his  brain  work- 
ing rapidly,  feverishly.  In  his  heart  was  the  rage  of 
defeat,  in  his  soul  the  clamour  of  fear, — not  fear  now 
of  the  dark  strip  of  woods  but  of  the  whole  world  about 
him.  He  communed  aloud. 

"  The  first  thing  to  do  is  to  pack.  I've  got  to  do 
that  tonight.  I'm  through  here.  The  jig's  up.  Sho 
means  it.  How  the  devil  did  she  find  out  all  this  stuff? 
.  .  .  But  if  I  leave  immediately  it  will  look  sus- 
picious. I've  got  to  stick  around  for  a  few  days.  If  I 
beat  it  tomorrow  morning  some  one's  bound  to  ask 
questions.  It  will  look  queer.  Tomorrow  I'll  receive 
an  urgent  letter  calling  me  home.  Mother  needs  me. 
Her  health  is  bad.  ...  I  wonder  if  an  autopsy  would 
reveal  anything.  .  .  .  Tomorrow  sure.  I  can't  stand 
it  here  another  day.  .  .  .  There's  nothing  to  worry 
about, — not  a  thing, — but  what's  the  sense  of  my  hang- 
ing around  here  any  longer?  She's  on.  Some  meddling 
whelp  has  been —  Good  Lord,  I  wonder  if  it  could  be 
that  fat  fool,  Webster?  .  .  .  If  I  skip  out  tonight, 
it  would  set  Vick  to  thinking.  .  .  .  What  a  fool  I 
was.  ..." 

And  so  on  till  he  came  to  the  woods.  There,  his  face 
blanched  and  his  heart  began  to  pound  like  a  hammer. 
He  drew  the  revolver  from  his  pocket  and  plunged  des- 
perately into  the  black  tunnel;  he  was  out  of  breath 
when  he  ran  down  to  the  landing. 

Through  the  gloom  he  distinguished  the  ferry  boat 
three-quarters  of  the  way  across  the  river,  nearing  the 
opposite  bank.  His  "  halloa  "  brought  an  answer  from 
the  ferryman.  Cursing  his  luck  in  missing  the  boat  by 


OUT  OF  THE  NIGHT  299 

so  short  a  margin  of  time,  he  sat  down  heavily  on  the 
stout  wooden  wall  that  guarded  the  approach.  It 
would  be  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  before  the  tortoise-like 
craft  could  recross  and  pick  him  up.  His  gaze  in- 
stantly went  downstream.  The  faint,  rhythmic  sound 
of  oarlocks  came  to  his  ears.  There  were  no  lights  on 
the  river,  but  after  a  time  he  made  out  the  vague  shape 
of  an  object  moving  on  the  surface  a  long  way  off. 
From  time  to  time  it  was  lost  in  the  shadows  of  the  tree- 
lined  bank,  only  to  steal  into  view  again  as  it  moved 
slowly  across  a  jagged  opening  in  the  far-reaching  wall 
of  black.  It  was  a  boat  coming  upstream,  hugging  the 
bank  to  avoid  the  current  farther  out. 

Some  one  approached.  He  turned  quickly  and  beheld 
the  figure  of  a  woman  coming  down  the  road.  His  heart 
leaped.  Could  it  be  Alix?  He  dismissed  the  thought 
immediately.  This  was  a  tall  woman — in  skirts.  She 
came  quite  close  and  stopped,  her  gaze  evidently  fixed 
upon  him.  Then  she  moved  a  little  farther  down  the 
slope  and  stood  watching  the  ferry  which,  by  this  time, 
was  moving  out  from  the  farther  side.  He  recognized 
the  figure.  It  was  that  of  the  gaunt  woman  who  crossed 
with  him  earlier  in  the  night. 

The  ferry  was  drawing  out  from  the  Windomville 
side  when  a  faint  shout  came  from  down  the  river.  Burk 
answered  the  call,  which  was  repeated. 

"  This  is  my  busy  night,"  growled  the  ferryman.  "  I 
ain't  been  up  this  late  in  a  coon's  age.  Not  since  the 
Old  Settlers'  Picnic  three  years  ago  down  at  the  old 
fort.  I  wonder  if  those  fellers  have  got  any  news  ?  " 

Courtney  stepped  off  the  boat  a  few  minutes  later 
and  hurried  up  the  hill.  The  woman  followed.  At  the 
jtop  of  the  slope  he  passed  three  or  four  men  standing 


300  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

in  the  shelter  of  the  blacksmith  shop,  where  they  were 
protected  from  the  sharp,  chill  wind  that  had  sprung 
up.  A  loud  shout  from  below  caused  him  to  halt.  Burk, 
the  ferryman,  had  called  out  through  his  cupped  hands : 

"What  say?" 

The  wind  bore  the  answer  from  an  unseen  speaker 
in  the  night,  clear  and  distinct :  "  We've  got  her ! " 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE    THROWER    OF    STONES 

A  icy  chill,  as  of  a  great  gust  of  wind,  swept 
through  and  over  Courtney  Thane.  His  mouth 
seemed  suddenly  to  fill  with  water.  He  could 
not  move.  The  men  by  the  forge  ran  swiftly  down 
the  hill.  The  tall  woman  turned  and  after  a  moment 
followed  the  men,  stopping  in  the  middle  of  the  road 
a  few  rods  above  the  landing.  She  was  still  standing 
there  when  Courtney  recovering  his  power  of  locomo- 
tion struck  off  rapidly  in  the  direction  of  Dowd's  Tav- 
ern. Halfway  home  he  came  to  an  abrupt  halt.  An 
inexplicable  irresistible  force  was  drawing  his  mind  and 
body  back  to  the  river's  edge.  He  did  not  want  to  go 
back  there  and  see — Rosabel.  He  tried  not  to  turn 
his  steps  in  that  direction,  and  yet  something  like  a 
magnet  was  dragging  him.  A  sort  of  fascination, — 
the  fascination  that  goes  with  dread,  and  horror,  and 
revulsion — took  hold  of  him.  ...  He  moved  slowly, 
hesitatingly  at  first,  then  swiftly,  not  directly  back  over 
the  ground  he  had  just  covered  but.by  a  circuitous  route 
that  took  him  through  the  lot  at  the  rear  of  the  forge. 
He  made  his  way  stealthily  down  the  slope,  creeping 
along  behind  a  thick  hedge  of  hazel  brush  to  a  point 
just  above  the  ferry  landing  and  to  the  left  of  the  old 
dilapidated  wharf.  Here  he  could  see  without  himself 
being  seen.  .  .  .  He  watched  them  lift  a  dark,  inani- 
mate object  from  the  boat  and  lay  it  on  the  wharf. 
301 


302  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

...  He  heard  men's  voices  in  excited,  subdued  con- 
versation. ...  He  saw  the  tall  woman  running  up 
the  road  toward  the  town.  She  paused  within  a  dozen 
feet  of  his  hiding  place.  .  .  .  Then  something  hap- 
pened to  him.  He  seemed  to  be  losing  the  sense  of  sight 
and  the  sense  of  hearing.  His  brain  was  blurred,  the 
sound  of  voices  trailed  off  into  utter  silence.  He  felt 
the  earth  giving  way  beneath  his  quaking  knees.  .  .  . 
The  next  he  knew,  men's  voices  fell  upon  his  dull,  un- 
comprehending ears.  Gradually  his  senses  returned. 
Out  of  the  confused  jumble  words  took  shape.  He 
heard  his  own  name  mentioned.  Instantly  his  every 
faculty  was  alive. 

Through  the  brush  he  could  see  the  dark,  indistinct 
forms  of  three  or  four  men.  They  were  in  the  road 
just  below  him. 

"  You  shouldn't  have  let  him  out  of  your  sight,"  one 
of  the  men  was  saying.  "  Hang  it  all,  we  can't  let 
him  give  us  the  slip  now." 

The  listener's  eyes,  sharpened  by  anxiety,  made  out 
the  figure  of  the  woman.  She  spoke, — and  he  was 
startled  to  hear  the  deep  voice  of  a  man. 

"  He  was  making  for  the  boarding  house.  Webster 
says  he  is  not  in  his  room.  I  took  it  for  granted  he 
was  going  home  or  I  wouldn't  have  turned  back." 

Where  had  he  heard  that  voice  before?  It  was 
strangely  familiar. 

1  Well,  we've  got  to  locate  him.  I'll  stake  my  life 
he  is  George  Ritchie.  I  compared  this  snap-shot  with 
the  photograph  I  have  with  me.  Shave  off  that  dinky 
little  moustache  and  I'll  bet  a  hundred  to  one  you'll 
have  Ritchie's  mug  all  right.  Hustle  back  there,  Gil- 
fillan,— you  and  Simons.  He'll  be  turning  up  at  the 


THE  THROWER  OF  STONES  303 

house  unless  he's  got  wind  of  us.  Don't  let  him  see 
you.  You  stay  here  with  me,  Constable.  The  chances 
are  he'll  come  back  here  to  wait  for  Miss  Crown,  if  he's 
as  badly  stuck  on  her  as  you  say,  Gilfillan.  They're 
all  fools  about  women." 

The  hidden  listener  was  no  longer  quaking.  His  body 
was  tense,  his  mind  was  working  like  lightning.  He  was 
wide  awake,  alert ;  the  fingers  that  clutched  the  weapon 
in  his  pocket  were  firm  and  steady ;  he  scarcely  breathed 
for  fear  of  betraying  his  presence,  but  the  courage 
of  the  hunted  was  in  his  heart. 

The  little  group  broke  up.  Constable  Foss  and  one 
of  the  strangers  remained  on  the  spot,  the  others  van- 
ished up  the  road.  He  glanced  over  his  shoulder  in  the 
direction  of  the  wharf.  A  long  dark  object  was  lying 
near  the  edge,  while  some  distance  away  a  small  knot 
of  men  stood  talking.  The  moon,  riding  high,  cast  a 
cold,  sickly  light  upon  the  scene. 

"  I've  always  been  kind  of  suspicious  of  him,"  Foss 
was  saying,  his  voice  lowered.  "  What  did  you  say  his 
real  name  is  ?  " 

"  His  real  name  is  Thane,  I  suppose.  I  guess  there's 
no  doubt  about  that.  Mind  you,  I'm  not  sure  he's  the 
man  we've  been  looking  for  these  last  six  months,  but 
I'm  pretty  sure  of  it.  Last  February  two  men  and  a 
woman  tried  to  smuggle  a  lot  of  diamonds  through  the 
customs  at  New  York.  I'll  not  go  into  details  now 
further  than  to  say  they  landed  from  one  of  the  big 
ocean  liners  and  came  within  an  ace  of  getting  away 
with  the  job.  The  woman  was  the  leader.  She  was 
nabbed  with  one  of  the  men  at  a  hotel.  The  other  man 
got  away.  He  was  on  the  passenger  list  as  George 
Ritchie,  of  Cleveland,  Ohio.  The  woman  had  half  a 


304.  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

dozen  photographs  of  him  in  her  possession.  I've  go? 
a  copy  of  one  of  'em  in  my  pocket  now,  and  it's  so 
much  like  this  fellow  Thane  that  you'd  swear  it  was 
of  the  same  man.  This  morning  Gilfillan, — that's  the 
Pinkerton  man, — telephoned  to  his  chief  in  Chicago  to 
notify  the  federal  authorities  that  he  was  almost  dead 
certain  that  our  man  was  here.  He's  a  wonder  at  re- 
membering faces,  and  he  had  seen  our  photographs. 
Simons  and  I  took  the  three  o'clock  train.  Gilfillan 
met  us  in  the  city  and  brought  us  out  after  we  had 
instructed  the  police  to  be  ready  to  help  us  in  case  he 
got  onto  us  and  gave  us  the  slip." 

"  How  much  of  a  reward  is  offered  ?  "  inquired  Foss. 

"  We  are  not  supposed  to  be  rewarded  for  doing  our 
duty,"  replied  the  Secret  Service  man  curtly.  "  He 
got  away  from  us  and  it's  our  business  to  catch  him 
again.  You  can  bet  he's  our  man.  He  wouldn't  be 
hanging  around  a  burg  like  this  for  months  unless  he 
had  a  blamed  good  reason  for  keeping  out  of  sight." 

"  He's  been  in  mighty  bad  health, — and,  if  anybody 
should  ask  you,  there  ain't  a  healthier  place  in  the 
world  than  right  here  in — " 

"  It's  healthier  than  most  jails,"  admitted  the  other 
with  a  chuckle. 

"  Umph ! "  grunted  Mr.  Foss,  delivering  without 
words  a  full  and  graphic  opinion  on  the  subject  of 
humour  as  it  exists  in  the  minds  of  people  who  live  in 
large  cities.  He  chewed  for  a  time  in  silence.  "  What 
became  of  the  woman  and  the  other  man?  " 

"  Oh,  they  were  sent  up, — I  don't  know  for  how  long. 
They're  old  hands.  Husband  and  wife.  Steamship 
gamblers  before  the  war.  Fleeced  any  number  of  suck- 
ers. She  must  be  a  peach,  judging  from  the  pictures 


THE  THROWER  OF  STONES  305 

I've  seen  of  her.  They  probably  would  have  got  away 
with  this  last  job  if  she  and  Ritchie  hadn't  tried  to 
put  something  over  on  friend  husband.  She  had  the 
can  all  ready  to  tie  to  him  when  he  got  wise  and  laid 
for  her  lover  with  a  gun.  The  revenue  people  had 
been  tipped  off  by  agents  in  Paris  and  traced  the  couple 
to  the  hotel.  They  sprung  the  trap  too  soon,  however, 
and  the  second  man  got  away." 

"  Well,  I  guess  there  ain't  any  question  but  what  this 
feller  here  is  old  Silas  Thane's  grandson.  They  say 
he's  the  livin'  image  of  old  Silas.  So  he  must  have 
sailed  under  a  false  name." 

"  They  usually  do,"  said  the  other  patiently. 

"  And  you  want  me  to  arrest  him  on  suspicion,  eh  ?  " 

"Certainly.     You're  a  county  official,  aren't  you?" 

"  I'm  an  officer  of  the  law." 

"  Well,  that's  the  answer.  We  are  obliged  to  turn 
such  matters  over  to  the  local  authorities.  What  do 
you  suppose  I'm  telling  you  about  the  case  for?  When 
I  give  the  word,  you  land  him  and — well,  Uncle  Sam 
will  do  the  rest,  never  fear." 

"  That's  all  right,  but  supposin'  he  ain't  the  man 
you're  after  and  he  turns  around  and  sues  me  for  false 
arrest?" 

"  You  can  detain  anybody  on  information  and  be- 
lief, my  friend.  Don't  you  know  that?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Foss  with  commendable  as- 
perity. "  Supposin'  he's  got  a  revolver?  " 

"  He  probably  has, — but  so  have  we.  Don't  worry. 
He  won't  have  a  chance  to  use  it.  Hello !  Isn't  that 
a  man  standing  up  there  by  that  telephone  pole?  We'll 
just  stroll  up  that  way.  Don't  hurry.  Keep  cool. 
Talk  about  the  drowning." 


806  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

They  were  halfway  up  the  hill  before  Courtney 
moved.  Every  nerve  was  aquiver  as  he  raised  himself 
to  his  feet  and  looked  cautiously  about.  The  thing 
he  feared  had  come  to  pass,  but  even  as  he  crouched 
there  in  the  shelter  of  the  bushes  the  means  of  salva- 
tion flashed  through  his  mind.  He  realized  that  the 
next  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  would  convince  these 
dogged,  experienced  man  chasers  that  their  quarry  had 
"  got  wind  of  them  "  and  was  in  flight.  The  hunt  would 
be  on  in  grim  earnest;  the  alarm  would  go  out  in  all 
directions.  Men  would  be  watching  for  him  at  every 
cross-roads,  every  railway  station,  every  village,  and 
(directing  the  hunt  would  be — these  men  who  never  give 
up  until  they  "  land  "  their  man. 

His  only  chance  lay  in  keeping  under  cover  for  a  day 
or  two, — or  even  longer, — until  the  chase  went  farther 
afield  and  he  could  take  the  risk  of  venturing  forth 
from  his  hiding  place.  He  had  the  place  in  mind.  They 
would  never  think  of  looking  for  him  in  that  sinister 
hole  in  the  wall,  Quill's  Window!  There  he  could  lie 
in  perfect  safety  until  the  coast  was  clear,  and  then  by 
night  steal  down  the  river  in  the  wake  of  pursuit. 

Their  first  thoughts  would  be  of  the  railroad,  the 
highways  and  the  city.  They  would  not  beat  the  woods 
for  him.  They  would  cut  off  all  avenues  of  escape  and 
set  their  traps  at  the  end  of  every  trail,  confident  that 
he  would  walk  into  them  perforce  before  another  day 
was  done. 

Like  a  ghost  he  stole  across  the  little  clearing  that 
lay  between  the  road  and  the  willows  above  the  ferry. 
The  snapping  of  a  twig  under  his  feet,  the  scuffling 
of  a  pebble,  the  rustling  of  dead  leaves  and  grass,  the 
scraping  of  his  garments  against  weeds  and  shrubbery, 


THE  THROWER  OF  STONES  307 

were  sounds  that  took  on  the  magnitude  of  ear-splitting 
crashes.  It  was  all  he  could  do  to  keep  from  breaking 
into  a  mad,  reckless  dash  for  the  trees  at  the  farther 
side  of  this  moonlit  stretch.  With  every  cautious,  fox- 
like  step,  he  expected  the  shout  of  alarm  to  go  up  from 
behind,  and  with  that  shout  he  knew  restraint  would 
fail  him ;  he  would  throw  discretion  to  the  winds  and 
bolt  like  a  frightened  rabbit,  and  the  dogs  would  be 
at  his  heels. 

He  was  nearing  the  trees  when  he  heard  some  one 
running  in  the  road,  now  a  hundred  yards  behind  him. 
Stooping  still  lower,  he  increased  his  speed  almost  to 
a  run.  The  sound  of-  footsteps  ceased  abruptly ;  the 
runner  had  come  to  a  sudden  halt.  Thane  reached  the 
thicket  in  another  stride  or  two  and  paused  for  a  few 
seconds  to  listen.  A  quick  little  thrill  of  relief  shot 
through  him.  No  one  was  coming  along  behind  him. 
The  runner,  whoever  he  was,  had  not  seen  him ;  no  cry 
went  up,  no  loud  yell  of  "  There  he  goes ! " 

Picking  his  way  carefully  down  the  slope  he  came  to 
the  trail  of  the  Indians,  over  which  he  had  trudged 
recently  on  his  trip  to  the  great  rock.  He  could  tell  by 
the  feel  of  the  earth  under  his  feet  that  he  was  on  the 
hard,  beaten  path  by  the  river's  edge.  Now  he  went 
forward  more  rapidly,  more  confidently.  There  were 
times  when  he  had  to  cross  little  moon-streaked  open- 
ings among  the  trees,  and  at  such  times  he  stooped 
almost  to  a  creeping  position. 

Occasionally  he  paused  in  his  flight  to  listen  for 
sounds  of  pursuit.  Once  his  heart  seemed  to  stop  beat- 
ing. He  was  sure  that  he  heard  footsteps  back  on  the 
trail  behind  him.  Again,  as  he  drew  near  the  rock- 
strewn  base  of  the  hill,  a  sound  as  of  some  one  scram- 


308  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

bling  through  the  underbrush  came  to  his  straining 
ears,  but  the  noise  ceased  even  as  he  stopped  to  listen. 
He  laughed  at  his  fears.  An  echo,  no  doubt,  of  his  own 
footsteps ;  the  wind  thrashing  a  broken  limb ;  the  action 
of  the  water  upon  some  obstruction  along  the  bank. 

Nevertheless  he  dropped  to  his  hands  and  knees  when 
he  came  to  the  outlying  boulders  and  j  agged  slabs  close 
to  the  foot  of  the  black,  towering  mass.  There  was  no 
protecting  foliage  here.  Never  in  his  life  had  he  known 
the  moon  to  shine  so  brightly.  He  whispered  curses  to 
the  high-hanging  lantern  in  the  sky. 

The  murmur  of  the  river  below  brought  a  consoling 
thought  to  him.  He  would  not  suffer  from  thirst.  He 
could  go  without  food  for  a  couple  of  days,  even  longer. 
Had  not  certain  English  women  survived  days  and  days 
of  a  voluntary  hunger  strike?  But  he  could  not  do 
without  water.  In  the  black  hours  before  dawn  he 
would  climb  down  from  his  eerie  den  and  drink  his  fill 
at  the  river's  brink. 

Now  a  sickening  fear  gripped  him.  What  if  he  were 
to  find  it  impossible  to  scale  that  almost  perpendicular 
steep?  What  if  those  hand-hewn  clefts  in  the  rock  fell 
short  of  reaching  to  the  cave's  entrance?  The  proc- 
esses of  time  and  the  elements  may  have  sealed  or  oblit- 
erated the  shallow  hand  and  toe  holds.  His  blood  ran 
cold.  He  had  dreaded  the  prospect  of  that  hazardous 
climb  up  the  face  of  the  rock.  Now  he  was  overcome 
by  an  even  greater  dread:  that  he  would  be  unable  to 
reach  the  place  of  refuge. 

He  had  no  thought  of  Alix  Crown  now — no  thought 
of  her  beauty,  her  body,  her  riches.  His  cherished 
dream  was  over.  She  took  her  place  among  other  for- 
gotten dreams.  The  sinister  business  of  saving  his  own 


THE  THROWER  OF  STONES  309 

skin  drove  her  out  of  his  mind.  It  drove  out  all  thought 
of  Rosabel  Vick.  The  hounds  were  at  his  heels.  It  was 
no  time  to  think  of  women ! 

II 

Anxiety  that  touched  almost  upon  despair  hastened 
his  steps.  Abandoning  caution,  he  ran  recklessly  up 
the  path  among  the  rocks,  stumbling  and  reeling  but 
always  keeping  his  feet,  and  came  at  last  to  the  gloomy, 
forbidding  fa£ade  of  Quill's  Window.  Here  he  groped 
along  the  wall,  clawing  for  the  sunken  cleats  with  eager, 
trembling  hands.  He  knew  they  were  there — some- 
where. Not  only  had  he  seen  them,  he  had  climbed  with 
ease,  hand  over  hand,  ten  or  a  dozen  feet  up  the  cliff. 
He  had  shuddered  a  little  that  day  as  he  looked  first 
over  his  shoulder  and  then  upward  along  the  still  un- 
sealed stretch  that  lay  between  him  and  the  mouth  of 
the  cave,  seventy  or  eighty  feet  away.  But  that  was  in 
broad  daylight.  It  would  be  different  now,  with  dark-' 
ness  as  his  ally. 

He  remembered  thinking  that  day  how  easy  it  would 
be  to  reach  Quill's  Window  by  this  rather  simple  route. 
All  that  was  required  was  a  stout  heart,  a  steady  hand, 
and  a  good  pair  of  arms.  All  of  these  were  bestowed 
upon  him  by  magic  of  darkness.  It  was  what  the  light 
revealed  that  made  a  coward  of  him.  Why,  he  could 
shut  his  eyes  tight  and  go  up  that  cliff  by  night  as 
easily  as — but  where  were  the  slots? 

At  last  his  hand  encountered  one  of  the  sharp  edges. 
He  reached  up  and  found  the  next  one  above, — and 
then  for  the  first  time  realized  that  his  eyes  had  been 
closed  all  the  time  he  was  feeling  along  the  cold  surface 
of  the  rock.  He  opened  them  in  a  start  of  actual  be- 


310  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

wilderment.  The  blackish  mass  rose  almost  sheer  above 
him,  like  a  vast  wall  upon  which  the  moon  cast  a  dull, 
murky  light.  He  closed  his  eyes  again  and  leaned 
heavily  against  the  rock.  His  heart  began  to  beat  hor- 
ribly. He  felt  his  courage  slipping;  he  wondered  if  he 
had  the  strength,  the  nerve  to  go  on;  he  saw  himself 
halfway  np  that  endless  wall,  clutching  wildly  to  save 
himself  when  a  treacherous  hand-hold  broke  loose  and — 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  tried  to  pierce  the  shadows 
below  the  rocky  path.  Was  it  best  to  hide  in  that  hole 
up  there,  after  all?  Would  it  not  be  wiser,  now  that  he 
had  a  fair  start,  to  keep  on  up  the  river,  trusting  to — 

A  chorus  of  automobile  horns  in  the  distance  came 
to  his  ears  suddenly, — a  confused  jumble  of  raucous 
blasts  produced  by  many  cars.  The  alarm!  The 
search  was  on!  The  wild  shriek  of  a  siren  broke  the 
stillness  near  at  hand,  followed  a  few  seconds  later  by 
the  gradually  increasing  roar  of  an  engine  as  it  sped  up 
the  dirt  road  not  three  hundred  yards  to  his  left, — the 
road  that  ran  past  the  gate  on  the  other  side  of  the 
hill.  God !  They  were  getting  close ! 

Another  and  even  more  disturbing  sound  came  to 
him  as  he  stood  with  his  fingers  gripping  one  of  the 
little  ledges,  the  toe  of  his  shoe  fumbling  for  a  foothold 
in  another.  Somewhere  back  on  the  trail  he  had  just 
traversed,  a  rock  went  clattering  down  to  the  river. 
He  heard  it  bounding — and  the  splash  as  it  shot  into 
the  water. 

He  hesitated  no  longer.  Shutting  his  eyes,  he  began 
the  ascent.  .  .  . 

A  dark  object  turned  the  corner  of  the  cliff  below 
and  moved  slowly,  cautiously  along  the  wall.  Suddenly 
it  stopped.  From  somewhere  in  the  gloom  ahead  came 


THE  THROWER  OF  STONES  311 

a  strange  and  puzzling  sound,  as  of  the  dragging  of  a 
tree  limb  across  the  face  of  the  rock.  The  crouching 
object  in  the  trail  straightened  up  and  was  transformed 
into  the  tall,  shadowy  figure  of  a  man. 

For  many  seconds  he  stood  motionless,  listening,  his 
eyes  searching  the  trail  ahead.  The  queer  sound  of 
scraping  went  on,  broken  at  intervals  by  the  faint 
rattle  of  sand  or  dirt  upon  the  rocky  path.  At  last  he 
looked  up.  Far  up  the  face  of  the  cliff  a  bulky,  shape- 
less thing  was  crawling,  slowly  but  surely  like  a  great 
beetle. 

The  watcher  could  not  believe  his  eyes.  And  yet 
there  could  be  no  mistake.  Something  was  crawling  up 
the  sheer  face  of  the  cliff,  a  bulging  shadow  dimly  out- 
lined against  the  starlit  sky. 

The  man  below  went  forward  swiftly.  Twice  he 
stooped  to  search  with  eager  hands  for  something  at 
his  feet,  but  always  with  his  gaze  fixed  on  the  creeping 
shadow.  He  knew  the  creeper's  goal :  that  black  streak 
in  the  wall  above,  rendered  thin  by  foreshortening.  He 
knew  the  creeper! 

Twenty  or  thirty  paces  short  of  the  ladder  he 
stopped.  From  that  spot  he  hurled  his  first  rock.  His 
was  a  young,  powerful  arm  and  the  missile  sped  up- 
ward as  if  shot  from  a  catapult.  It  struck  the  face  of 
the  cliff  a  short  distance  above  the  head  of  the  climber 
and  glanced  off  to  go  hurtling  down  among  the  trees 
beyond. 

Thane  stopped  as  if  paralysed.  For  one  brief,  hor- 
rible moment  he  felt  every  vestige  of  strength  deserting 
him,  oozing  out  through  his  tense,  straining  finger-tips. 
The  shock  had  stunned  him.  He  moaned, — a  little 
whimpering  moan.  He  was  about  to  fall!  He  could 


312  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

hold  on  no  longer  with  those  weak,  trembling  hands. 
His  brain  reeled.  A  great  dizziness  seized  him.  He 
clung  frantically  to  the  face  of  the  rock,  making  a  des- 
perate effort  to  regain  his  failing  senses.  Suddenly  his 
strength  returned;  he  was  stronger  than  ever.  A 
miracle  had  happened. 

The  mouth  of  the  cave  was  not  more  than  half  a 
dozen  feet  above  him.  He  opened  his  eyes  for  one 
brief,  daring  glance  upward.  Not  more  than  five  or 
six  steps  to  go.  Gritting  his  teeth  he  went  on.  Now 
only  four  more  ledges  to  grip,  four  more  footholds  to 
find. 

A  second  stone  whizzed  past  his  head  and  struck  with 
a  crash  beyond  him.  He  heard  it  whistle,  he  felt  the 
rush  of  air. 

"  God !  If  that  had  got  my  head !  What  an  inhuman 
iievil  he  is  !  The  dirty  beast !  " 

The  fourth  stone  caught  him  in  the  side  after  glanc- 
ing off  the  wall  to  his  left.  He  groaned  aloud,  but 
gripped  more  fiercely  than  ever  at  his  slender  support. 
For  a  few  seconds  he  could  not  move.  Then  he  reached 
up  and  felt  for  the  next  "  cleat."  He  found  it  but,  like 
many  others  he  had  encountered,  it  was  filled  with  sand 
and  dirt.  That  meant  delay.  He  would  have  to  dig 
it  out  with  his  fingers  before  risking  his  grip  on  the 
edge.  Fast  and  feverishly  he  worked.  Another  stone 
struck  below  his  feet. 

"  Hey !  "  he  yelled.  "  Let  up  on  that !  Do  you  want 
to  kill  me?  Cut  it  out!  I  can't  get  away,  you  damned 
fool!  You've  got  me  cornered."  His  voice  was  high 
and  shrill. 

The  answer  was  another  stone  which  grazed  his  leg. 

A  moment  later  he  reached  over  and  felt  along  the 


THE  THROWER  OF  STONES  313 

floor  of  the  cave  for  the  final  hold.  Finding  it,  he  drew 
himself  up  over  the  edge  and  crawled,  weak  and  half- 
fainting,  out  of  range  of  the  devilish  marksman. 

For  a  long  time  he  lay  still,  gasping  for  breath. 
They  had  him  cold !  There  was  no  use  in  trying  to 
think  of  a  way  out  of  his  difficulty.  All  he  wanted  now 
was  to  rest,  a  chance  to  pull  himself  together.  After 
all  was  said  and  done,  what  were  a  few  years  in  the 
penitentiary?  He  was  young.  Five  years, — even  ten, 
— what  were  they  at  his  time  of  life?  He  would  be 
thirty-five,  at  the  most  forty,  when  he  came  out,  and 
as  fit  as  he  was  when  he  went  in. 

"  It  was  all  my  fault,  anyway,"  he  reflected  bitterly. 
"  If  I  had  let  Madge  alone  I —  Oh, — what's  the  use 
belly-aching  now !  That's  all  over, — and  here  am  I, 
paying  pretty  blamed  dearly  for  a  month's  pleasure. 
They've  got  me.  There's  no  way  out  of  it  now.  Jail ! 
Well,  worse  things  could  happen  than  that.  What  will 
mother  think?  I  suppose  it  will  hurt  like  the  devil.  But 
she  could  have  fixed  this  if  she'd  loosened  up  a  bit.  She 
could  have  gone  to  Washington  as  I  told  her  to  do  and 
— hell,  it  wouldn't  have  cost  her  half  as  much  as  it  will 
to  defend  me  in  court.  She  can't  get  a  decent  lawyer 
under — well,  God  knows  how  many  thousands." 

He  sat  up  and  unbuttoned  his  overcoat  in  order  to 
feel  of  the  spot  where  the  stone  had  struck  him.  He 
winced  a  little.  After  a  moment's  reflection  he  drew 
a  box  of  matches  from  his  pocket. 

"  No  harm  in  striking  a  match  now,"  he  chattered 
aloud.  "  I  may  as  well  see  what  sort  of  a  place  it  is." 

He  crawled  farther  back  in  the  cave,  out  of  the  wind, 
and  struck  a  match.  His  hand  shook  violently,  his  chin 
quivered.  During  the  life  of  the  brief  flare,  the  interior 


314  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

of  Quill's  Window  was  revealed  to  him.  The  cave  was 
perhaps  twenty  feet  deep  and  almost  as  wide  at  the 
front,  with  an  uneven,  receding  roof  and  a  flat  floor  that 
dropped  at  no  inconsiderable  slant  toward  the  rear.  It 
appeared  to  be  empty  except  for  the  remains  of  two  or 
three  broken-up  boxes  over  against  one  of  the  walls. 
He  struck  a  second  match  to  light  a  cigarette,  con- 
tinuing his  scrutiny  while  the  tiny  blaze  lasted.  He  saw 
no  bones,  no  ghastly  skulls,  no  signs  of  the  ancient 
tragedies  that  made  the  place  abhorrent. 

He  crawled  back  to  the  entrance.  Lying  flat,  he 
peered  over  the  ledge. 

"  Hallo>  down  there ! "  he  called  out.  No  response. 
He  shouted  once  more,  his  voice  cracking  a  little. 

"Where  are  you?" 

This  time  he  got  an  answer.    A  hoarse  voice  replied: 

"  I'm  here,  all  right." 

Thane  forced  a  laugh. 

"  Well,  I'm  up  here,  all  right.  You've  got  me  treed. 
What's  the  idea  ?  Waiting  for  me  to  come  down  ?  " 
No  answer.  "  Say,  it's  worth  a  lot  of  money  to  you  if 
you'll  just  walk  on  and  forget  that  I'm  up  here.  I'll 
give  you  my  word  of  honour  to  come  across  with  enough 
to  put  you  on  easy  street  for  the  rest  of  your  life." 
He  heard  the  man  below  walking  up  and  down  the  path. 

"  Did  you  hear  what  I  said?  You  can't  pick  up 
twenty-five  thousand  every  day,  you  know."  He  waited 
for  the  response  that  never  came.  "  Honesty  isn't  al- 
ways the  best  policy.  Think  it  over."  Another  long 
silence.  Then :  "  I  suppose  you  know  the  government 
does  not  pay  any  reward."  Still  that  heavy,  steady 
tread.  "  If  you  think  I'm  going  to  come  down  you're 
jolly  well  off  your  nut."  He  wriggled  nearer  the  edge 


THE  THROWER  OF  STONES  315 

and  peered  over.  The  black  form  shuttled  restlessly 
back  and  forth  past  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  for  all  the 
world  like  a  lion  in  its  cage.  Presently  it  moved  off 
toward  the  bend  at  the  corner  of  the  cliff,  where  it 
stopped,  still  in  view  of  the  man  above, — a  vague, 
shapeless  object  in  the  faint  light  of  the  moon. 

Many  minutes  passed.  Ten,  fifteen, — they  seemed 
hours  to  the  trapped  fugitive, — and  then  he  heard  a 
voice,  suppressed  but  distinct. 

"Who's  there?" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  another  voice 
replied,  but  he  could  not  make  out  the  words. 

The  man  stepped  out  of  sight  around  the  bend.  A 
few  seconds  later,  Thane  heard  a  jumble  of  voices. 
Drawing  away  from  the  ledge,  he  slunk  deeper  into  the 
cave.  He  heard  some  one  running  along  the  trail,  and 
a  muffled  voice  giving  directions.  He  drew  a  deep,  long 
breath. 

"The  death  watch,  eh?"  he  muttered.  "They're 
going  to  sit  there  till  I  have  to  come  out.  Like  vultures. 
They  haven't  the  nerve  to  come  up  here  after  me.  The 
rotten  cowards !  " 

Then  he  heard  something  that  caused  him  to  start 
up  in  a  sort  of  panic.  He  stood  half  erect,  crouching 
back  against  the  wall,  his  eyes  glued  on  the  opening,  his 
hand  fumbling  nervously  for  the  revolver  in  his  pocket. 

Some  one  was  climbing  up  the  cliff! 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

A    MESSAGE   AND    ITS    ANSWER 


WEBSTER  met  Alix  at  the  ferry. 
The  body  of  the  drowned  girl  had  been  removed 
to  Hart's  Undertaking  Parlours  and  Expert 
Carpenter's  Shop  in  obedience  to  the  County  Coroner's 
instructions  by  telephone. 

The  fat  man  was  so  overcome  by  excitement  he  could 
hardly  speak.  Sitting  beside  Alix  in  the  automobile, 
he  rattled  on  at  a  great  rate  about  the  extraordinary 
turn  of  affairs,  and  it  was  not  until  they  were  nearly 
home  that  he  discovered  she  was  sobbing  quietly  in  her 
corner  of  the  car. 

"Gosh,  what  are  you  crying  for,  Alix?"  he  de- 
manded. "  It's  the  greatest  piece  of  good  fortune  that 
ever  —  " 

"  I  am  thinking  of  poor  Mrs.  Vick,"  she  murmured 
chokingly. 

"  Oh  !  Yes,  that's  right.  It's  terrible  for  that  poor 
woman.  Terrible.  As  I  was  saying,  the  last  anybody 
saw  of  him  was  when  he  started  for  the  Tavern.  Gil- 
fillan  follered  him  part  ways  and  then  went  back  to  the 
ferry,  never  dreaming  he  —  But  didn't  I  tell  you  that 
before?  I'm  so  upset  I  don't  seem  to  remember  what 
I  —  Oh,  yes,  now  I  know  where  I  was.  The  detectives 
insisted  on  searching  every  room  in  the  Tavern.  Angie 
Miller  got  as  sore  as  a  boiled  lobster  when  they  knocked 
on  her  door  and  asked  if  he  was  in  her  room.  You 
316 


A  MESSAGE  AND  ITS  ANSWER        317 

ought  to  have  heard  what  she  said  to  'em  from  behind 
the  door  when  she  finally  opened  it  and  let  'em  in, — and 
she  nearly  had  a  fit  when  she  saw  old  Tintype  was  with 
'em.  She  lit  into  him, — my  gosh,  how  she  lit  into  him  I 
Accused  him  of  suspecting  her  of  having  an  erudite 
affair  with  Courtney, — erudite  wasn't  the  word  she 
used,  but  it  don't  matter,  it's  as  good  as  any  for  an 
old  maid.  We  searched  everywhere,  but  no  sign  of  him. 
You  needn't  be  surprised  to  find  one  of  the  detectives 
hanging  around  your  place,  Alix.  They  think  maybe 
he'll  turn  up  there  before  long." 

"He  can't  be  very  far  away,"  said  she  suddenly 
aroused  to  anxiety.  She  had  ceased  crying  and  was 
drying  her  eyes  with  her  handkerchief.  The  car  was 
nearing  the  entrance  to  her  grounds.  "  He  wouldn't 
dare  come  to  my  house  after — after  what  I  said  to  him 
tonight.  He  could  not  expect  me  to  help  him  in  any —  " 

"  Well,  you  see,  it's  barely  possible  he  don't  know 
they're  after  him,  Alix.  I  guess  maybe  I'd  better  stay 
here  for  a  while.  You  won't  be  so  nervous  with  me  in 
the  house." 

"  I  am  not  afraid,  Charlie.  Of  course,  I  am  terribly 
unstrung  and  unhappy  over  poor  little  Rosabel, — but 
I  am  not  afraid  of  him.  He  will  not  come  here.  Tell 
me  again  just  what  he  is  accused  of  doing." 

The  car  had  drawn  up  under  the  porte-cochere. 
Webster  repeated  the  story  he  had  had  from  Gilfillan. 
She  sat  perfectly  still  during  the  lengthy  recital. 

"  And  to  think —  "  she  began,  but  checked  the  words 
in  time.  "  Oh,  what  fools  we  have  been,  Charlie !  " 

"  Anyhow,"  said  Charlie,  divining  her  thoughts, 
"  there's  a  good  deal  to  be  said  for  that  saying,  *  All's 
well  that  ends  well.'  I've  been  thinking  what  a  differ- 


318  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

ence  there  is  in  men.  Now,  take  for  instance  David 
Strong.  Just  stack  him  up  alongside  this  slick,  smooth- 
talking—  " 

"  Oh,  Charlie !  "    It  was  almost  a  wail. 

He  took  her  hand  in  one  of  his  and  gently  patted  it 
with  the  other. 

"  I  guess  you'd  kind  of  like  to  see  Davy  for  a  change, 
wouldn't  you,  Alix?  " 

She  caught  her  breath  sharply,  as  if  in  pain. 

"  Now,  there's  a  felleV,"  went  on  Charlie  after  a 
moment,  "  that's  all  wool  and  a  yard  wide.  He —  " 

'*  Good  night,  Charlie,"  she  broke  in  abruptly. 
"  Thank  you  for  coming  to  meet  me.  You — you  are 
the  best,  the  dearest  man  in  the  world.  I —  " 

"  You  needen't  thank  me  for  standin'  up  for  Davy 
Strong.  That's  what  you're  really  thankin'  me  for, 
you  know,"  said  he.  "  I've  always  loved  that  boy, 
Alix."  She  pressed  his  hand.  "That's  good!"  he 
cried  fervently.  "  I  love  him  so  much  I  wish  he  was 
sitting  right  here  where  I'm  sitting  now.  I'll  bet  he'd 
be  the  happiest  feller  in  all —  Well,  so  long,  Alix. 
You've  had  a  hard  day.  I  won't  make  it  any  worse 
for  you  by  talking  about  David  Strong.  I  know  how 
much  you  hate  him.  Just  the  same,  I  wish  he  was 
sitting  here  in  my  place." 

"  So  do  I,  Charlie,"  she  confessed,  with  a  deep  sigh. 

"  So's  you  could  hate  him  to  your  heart's  content, 
eh?  "  he  chaffed. 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured, — "  to  my  heart's   content." 

"  Well,  I've  got  to  get  busy,"  he  exclaimed  briskly. 
"  Can't  sit  here  talkin'  nonsense  to  you  when  there's 
so  much  to  do.  Link  Pollock  and  Doc  and  Tintype  are 
waiting  for  me  down  at  the  Tavern.  I  promised  to 


A  MESSAGE  AND  ITS  ANSWER         319 

hurry  back  with  the  car.  That  reminds  me,  Alix. 
We're  going  to  use  your  car  to  go  hunting  in.  I  guess 
you  don't  mind,  do  you?  " 

She  spoke  to  the  chauffeur  as  she  got  out.  "  Take 
Mr.  Webster  wherever  he  wants  to  go,  Ed.  I  shall  not 
need  the  car  until  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning." 

Mrs.  Strong  was  waiting  up  for  her.  There  was  a 
big  fire  in  the  living-room,  and  a  tray  with  hot  coffee 
and  toast  on  a  table  beside  the  comfortable  chair  that 
had  been  drawn  up  near  the  fender. 

Alix  dropped  wearily  into  the  chair  and  stretched  her 
booted,  pantalooned  legs  out  in  complete  relaxation. 

"  You  poor  child,"  cried  Mrs.  Strong.  "  You're  all 
done  up.  My,  but  you're  white  and  tired-looking.  It's 
been  a  terrible  strain.  Sit  still  now  and  I'll  take  your 
hat  off  for  you.  Better  have  your  coat  and  boots  off, 
too,  dear.  Hilda  will  have  a  hot  bath  ready  for  you 
whenever  you're  ready  to —  " 

"  I  suppose  you  know  they've  found  her,  Auntie?  In 
the  river." 

"Yes.  Ed  told  me.  Now,  don't  talk  about  it. 
Here's  some  hot  coffee." 

"  Never  mind  my  coat.  I'm  too  tired.  You  know 
about  Courtney  Thane?  " 

"  I  only  know  they're  hunting  for  him.  There's  a 
man  out  in  the  kitchen.  Is — is  it  in  connection  with 
Rosabel's  death?" 

"No.  Thank  you,  Auntie.  That  feels  better.  I 
haven't  had  it  off  since  morning.  Charlie  told  me  about 
Thane,  but  I  am  not  sure  whether  I  can  get  it  straight. 
He  was  so  excited, — and  I  was  so  distressed." 

Her  voice  was  low  and  husky  with  fatigue  and  emo- 
tion; it  was  apparent  that  she  controlled  it  with  dif- 


320  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

ficulty.  In  her  dark  eyes  there  was  a  brooding,  haunted 
look.  She  repeated  as  best  she  could  Charlie's  ram- 
bling, disjointed  story. 

"  And  just  to  think,"  cried  Mrs.  Strong  at  the  end, 
"  you  let  that  beast  kiss  you  and —  " 

"Oh,  don't!  Don't!"  cried  the  girl,  covering  her 
eyes  with  her  hands.  "  I  can't  bear  the  thought  of  it. 
I  wasn't  myself.  I  don't  know  what  came  over —  " 

"  There,  there !  Don't  think  about  it  any  more.  It's 
all  right  now.  And  you're  not  the  only  woman  that's 
lost  her  head  since  God  made  Adam,  my  dear.  It's 
pretty  hard  not  to  sometimes.  You — " 

"  Oh,  I  couldn't, — I  couldn't  have  done  anything  bad. 
I  couldn't—  " 

"  God  bless  you,  of  course  you  couldn't,"  cried  the 
older  woman,  stroking  the  girl's  hair.  "  Do  you  think 
this  coffee  will  keep  you  awake?  "  She  poured  out  a 
steaming  cup  and  dropped  two  lumps  of  sugar  into  it. 

"  I  sha'n't  go  to  sleep  anyway,  Auntie,  so —  " 

The  ringing  of  the  door  bell  startled  them.  Alix 
sprang  to  her  feet  in  alarm. 

"Don't  go  to  the  door!"  she  cried.  "It's — it's 
Courtney  Thane!" 

"  Nonsense !  Hell  not  be  coming  here.  Sit  down. 
I'll  inquire  who  it  is  before  I  open  the  door." 

"  Under  no  circumstances  are  you  to  let  him  in, 
Mrs.  Strong,"  ordered  Alix  peremptorily. 

"  I  should  say  not !  It  would  look  pretty,  wouldn't 
it,  if  the  papers  came  out  and  said  the  notorious  bandit 
was  captured  in  the  home  of  Miss  Alix  Crown,  the 
beautiful  and  wealthy  heiress?  They  always — "  The 
bell  rang  again.  "  Put  the  cream  in  yourself,  Alix. 
I'll  see  who  it  is." 


A  MESSAGE  AND  ITS  ANSWER        321 

Alix  followed  her  with  anxious,  apprehensive  eyes  as 
she  passed  into  the  hall.  She  heard  the  following 
dialogue: 

"Who  is  it?" 

"  Does  Miss  Crown  live  here?  "  came  in  a  clear,  boy- 
ish voice  from  the  outside. 

"  She  does.    Who  are  you  and  what  do  you  want?  " 

"  I'm  a  messenger  boy.     I  got  a  letter  for  her." 

"  A  letter?    Who's  it  from?  " 

"  Say,  open  up !    I  can't  stand  out  here  all  night." 

"  Who  is  it  from?  "  repeated  Mrs.  Strong  firmly. 

"  How  do  I  know?    I  ain't  no  mind-reader." 

Mrs.  Strong  looked  in  at  Alix.  "  I  guess  it's  all 
right,  isn't  it?" 

"  Open  the  door,"  said  Alix  quietly. 

A  small,  shivering  messenger  boy  in  uniform  entered. 

"  Are  you  Miss  Crown?  " 

"  No,  I'm  not.     Where's  the  letter?  " 

"  I  got  to  deliver  it  to  her.  If  she  ain't  here  I'm  to 
wait.  I  got  to  get  an  answer." 

Alix  came  forward.  "  I  am  Miss  Crown.  Come  in, 
my  boy,  and  warm  yourself  by  the  fire." 

"  Sign  here,"  said  the  boy,  indicating  a  line  in  his 
receipt  book. 

While  Alix  was  signing  her  nama>  Mrs.  Strong  looked 
the  boy  over.  "  Dear  me,  you  must  be  nearly  frozen, 
child.  No  overcoat  on  a  night  like  this.  Did  you  come 
all  the  way  out  here  from  the  city  on  a  bicycle?  " 

"  Give  him  some  coffee,  Mrs.  Strong,"  said  Alix, 
handing  back  the  book  and  receiving  the  envelope  in 
return. 

"  I  got  a  taxi  waiting  for  me  out  in  front,"  said  the 
boy.  "  Say,  what's  goin'  on  in  this  burg?  We  been 


322  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

held  up  three  times,  and  just  now  a  man  stopped  me 
out  here  in  the  yard  and — " 

"What's  the  matter,  Alix?"  cried  Mrs.  Strong. 

The  girl  was  staring  at  the  address  on  the  envelope. 
Doubt,  wonder,  incredulity  filled  her  eyes. 

"  Why, — why,  Auntie, — it's  David's  writing !  Da- 
vid's! "  she  cried.  "  See!  Isn't  it?  I  would  recognize 
it—" 

"  Bless  my  soul,  so  it  is !  "  exclaimed  David's  mother. 

"  Oh, — what  does  it  mean?  Boy,  where  did  you  get 
this  letter?  "  Her  voice  trembled  with  excitement,  her 
eyes  were  gleaming. 

"  Never  mind,"  put  in  Mrs.  Strong,  turning  her  head 
to  hide  a  smile.  "  You  run  upstairs  and  read  it,  Alix, 
and  I—  " 

"  Auntie  Strong,  do  you  know  anything  about  this  ?  " 
demanded  Alix  suspiciously.  The  colour  was  flowing 
back  into  her  cheeks.  "  Have  you  been  keeping  some- 
thing— " 

"  — and  I  will  entertain  this  young  gentleman  dur- 
ing your  absence,"  went  on  the  other  serenely, — 
but  there  was  a  flush  in  her  cheeks  and  her 
eyes  were  very  bright  and  happy.  "  You  go  and  read 
your  letter  and, — did  you  say  there  was  to  be  an  an- 
swer, boy?  " 

"  Yes'm." 

"And  write  your  answer,"  concluded  Mrs.  Strong. 
"  Come  along,  my  lad,  and  have  a  nice  hot  cup  of  coffee 
and  some  toast.  I  hope  you  take  sugar.  There  are 
two  lumps  in  it  already." 

Alix  fairly  ran  from  the  room.  They  heard  her 
racing  up  the  stairs. 

"Will    you    have    cream,    my    boy?"    asked    Mrs. 


A  MESSAGE  AND  ITS  ANSWER         323 

Strong,  steadying  her  voice  with  an  effort.  He  had 
shuffled  along  behind  her  to  the  fireplace. 

"  Yes'm,"  and  then  as  an  afterthought :  "  if  you 
please,  ma'am."  He  looked  up  and  saw  that  his 
hostess's  eyes  were  swimming  in  tears.  "  I — I  hope  it 
ain't  bad  news,"  he  stammered  uncomfortably. 

"  Don't  you  know  there  are  such  things  as  tears  of 
joy?"  inquired  the  lady. 

He  looked  very  doubtful.  "  No  ma'am,"  he  sol- 
emnly confessed.  The  tears  he  knew  about  were  not 
joyous. 

"  Wasn't  it  just  like  David  to  hire  an  automobile 
to  send  you  out  here  to  deliver  the  letter  to  her?  I 
suppose  it  must  have  cost  him  a  pretty  penny.  Most 
men  would  have  put  a  two  cent  stamp  on  it.  But  my 
son  is  not  like  other  men.  He  is  always  doing  the  most 
unexpected  things, — and  the  very  nicest  things.  Now, 
who  else  in  the  world  would  have  thought  of  hiring  an 
automobile  to  send  a  message  by?  " 

"  Is  he  your  son,  ma'am?  " 

"  Yes.    My  son  David.     Did  you  see  him?  " 

"  Sure  I  did." 

"  How  was  he  looking?  " 

"  Fine,"  said  the  lad.     "  Gee,  but  he's  tall." 

"  Six  feet  three,  my  boy,"  said  David's  mother. 
"  That's  very  hot.  Be  careful  not  to  scald  your  mouth. 
Shall  I  put  in  another  lump, — or  two?  " 

"Will  it  cool  it  off  any?" 

"  I  am  sure  it  will." 

Meanwhile,  Alix  was  greedily  devouring  the  contents 
of  the  letter.  She  stood  beside  the  light  over  her 
dressing-table;  her  heart  was  pounding  furiously,  her 
eyes  were  radiantly  bright. 


324  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

DEAR  ALIX: 

I  have  just  this  instant  arrived  in  town,  and  I  am  scrib- 
bling this  in  the  hotel  writing-room,  with  my  overcoat  still 
on  my  back.  I  shall  not  go  to  sleep  tonight  until  I  have 
had  your  reply.  Somehow  I  will  find  a  way  to  get  this 
letter  to  you  tonight,  I  don't  know  how  at  present,  but 
where  there's  a  will  there's  a  way.  If  mother  and  Charlie 
Webster  are  mistaken,  or  if  they  have  assumed  something 
that  is  not  true,  I  shall  go  away  again  without  bothering 
you.  But  if  you  want  me,  I  will  come  straight  out  to  you. 
You  are  in  trouble.  I  am  not  asking  anything  for  myself, 
dear, — you  know  me  well  enough  to  understand  that, — I  am 
only  asking  you  to  let  me  do  anything  in  the  world  I  can 
for  you.  That  is  why  I  dropped  everything  to  come.  I 
am  happy,  you  don't  know  how  happy,  to  be  even  this  close 
to  you.  I  have  always  wanted  to  hang  out  my  shingle  in 
this  dear  old  town.  I  do  not  like  the  East.  I  am  a  West- 
erner and  I  can't  seem  to  make  myself  fit  in  with  the  East. 
I  shall  always  be  a  Hoosier,  I  fear, — and  hope.  Just  the 
few  minutes  I  have  been  here  in  this  familiar  old  hotel,  and 
the  ride  through  the  quiet  streets,  and  getting  off  the  train 
at  the  insignificant  little  depot,  and  having  the  hackman, — 
they  are  taxi-drivers  now, — yell  out, — "  Hello,  Davy,"  and 
run  up  to  shake  hands  with  me, — well,  I  am  so  homesick  I 
could  cry.  But  you  know  why  I  cannot  come  here  to  live 
and  practise.  If  I  can't  be  very,  very  near  to  you,  Alix 
darling,  I  must  keep  myself  as  far  away  as  possible.  It  is 
the  only  way.  But  if  I  keep  on  at  this  rate,  you  will  think 
I  am  writing  a  love  letter  to  you,  when,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  I  am  only  asking  you  if  you  care  to  see  me  and  tell 
me  what  I  can  do  to  help  you  now, — if  you  need  the  help 
of  your 

Always  devoted 

DAVID. 

P.S. — If  you  would  rather  not  see  me,  don't  hesitate  to 
say  so.  I  will  understand.  And  please  do  not  blame 


A  MESSAGE  AND  ITS  ANSWER         325 

mother  and  Charlie.  They  would  both  die  for  you,  dear. 
P.S.S. — You  will  be  pleased  to  know,  I  am  sure,  that  I 
have  the  five  hundred  I  still  owe  you  in  my  pocket,  all  in 
brand  new  bills,  and  I  think  you  might  give  me  the  happi- 
ness of  quarrelling  face  to  face  with  you  about  the  matter 
instead  of  under  the  protection  of  a  two-cent  stamp. 

D. 

She  read  the  letter  aloud.  When  she  came  to  the 
end  she  kissed  the  sheet  of  paper  rapturously  and  then 
pressed  it  to  her  breast.  For  a  few  moments  she  stood 
there  with  her  eyes  closed,  a  little  smile  on  her  lips,  the 
blush  of  roses  deepening  in  her  cheeks. 

Suddenly  she  roused  herself.  Hurrying  to  the  desk 
across  the  room,  she  snatched  a  sheet  of  note  paper  from 
the  rack,  seated  herself,  and  began  to  write. 

DEAREST  DAVID: 

This  is  a  love  letter.  I  love  you.  I  have  always  loved 
you,  ever  since  I  can  remember,  only  I  did  not  realize  how 
much  until  you  wouldn't  let  me  have  my  own  way  about  the 
money.  Then  I  tried  to  hate  you.  The  best  thing  I  can 
say  for  the  experiment  was  that  it  kept  me  thinking  about 
you  all  the  time.  You  were  never  out  of  my  thoughts, 
David  dear.  Oh,  how  many  nights  have  I  laid  awake  in- 
venting reasons  for  hating  you,  and  how  many,  many  times 
have  I  ended  up  by  hating  myself.  I  am  a  very  mean, 
despicable  creature.  I  am  a  loathsome,  poisonous  reptile, 
and  you  ought  to  put  your  foot  on  my  neck  and  keep  it 
there  forever  and  ever.  Now  I  know  why  I  have  been  so 
mean  to  you.  It  is  because  I  love  you  so  much.  You  can- 
not grasp  that,  can  you  ?  You  could  if  you  were  a  woman. 

The  boy  is  waiting  for  this.  How  wonderful  of  you  to 
send  him  out  here  in  a  taxi ! ! !  I  shall  tell  him  to  go  back 
to  town  as  fast  as  the  car  can  travel.  I  hope  it  is  a  fast 


326  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

one,  because  I  want  you  to  get  in  it  and  come  to  me  at 
once.  I  shall  wait  up  for  you,  David.  Please  come  tonight. 
You  don't  know  how  badly  I  need  you.  You  must  stay 
here  with  your  mother  and  me,  and  I  don't  want  you  ever 
to  go  away  again, — unless  you  take  me  with  you. 
Your  humble  sweetheart, 

ALIX. 

P.S. — I  wouldn't  quarrel  with  you  for  five  hundred  mil- 
lion dollars. 

P.S.S. — Oh,  how  I  wish  some  kind  genie  could  transport 
you  to  me  instantly!  A. 

Sealing  the  envelope,  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and 
started  for  the  door.  She  stopped  halfway,  dashed 
back  and  fished  in  a  drawer  of  her  desk,  found  her 
purse  and  extracted  a  crumbling  bank-note.  Without 
so  much  as  a  glance  to  ascertain  its  denomination,  she 
turned  and  sped  downstairs. 

Her  eyes  were  aglow  with  excitement,  her  lips  were 
parted  in  a  divine  smile.  She  was  a  little  out  of  breath. 
The  boy  gazed  upon  her  spellbound.  In  that  brief, 
transcendent  moment  he  fell  deeply,  hopelessly  in  love, 
— and  that  is  why,  a  moment  later,  he  manfully  en- 
deavoured to  refuse  the  prodigious  tip  she  was  offering 
him.  Only  when  she  stuffed  it,  with  her  own  fingers, 
into  the  depths  of  his  breast  pocket,  directly  over  his 
heart,  was  he  able  to  persuade  himself  that  he  ought  to 
accept  it  if  for  no  other  reason  than  it  would  hurt  her 
feelings  if  he  didn't. 

"  You  must  go  straight  back  just  as  fast  as  you 
can,"  she  was  saying, — and  what  a  sweet,  wonderful 
voice  she  had,  just  like  some  kind  of  a  song  he  thought, 
— "  and  see  that  Mr.  Strong  has  this  letter  at  once. 


A  MESSAGE  AND  ITS  ANSWER         327 

He  is  waiting  for  it,  you  know.  You  will  hurry,  won't 
you, — that's  a  good  boy." 

"  Yes'm,"  gulped  the  lad,  and  then,  realizing  he  had 
not  quite  come  up  to  expectations,  amplified  his  promise 
with  a  stirring:  "  You  bet  your  life  I  will." 

She  went  to  the  door  with  him,  and  said  good  night 
so  sweetly,  and  with  such  a  thrill  in  her  voice,  that  he 
experienced  the  amazing  sensation  of  having  wings  on 
his  feet  as  he  sped  down  to  the  gate. 

Alix  ran  to  Mrs.  Strong  and  threw  her  arms  around 
her  neck. 

"  Oh,  Auntie, — he's  in  town.  He  is  coming  out  and 
— and  I  am  going  to  marry  him.  Yes,  I  am !  Tomor- 
row, if  he'll  let  me.  I  ought  not  to  be  so  happy,  I  know. 
It  is  terrible,  with  so  much  grief  and  sorrow  over  at — 
But  I  can't  help  it !  I  never  was  so  happy  in  my  life — 
never ! " 

Rushing  up  to  the  waiting  taxi,  the  boy  thrust  the 
letter  in  through  the  open  door.  It  was  seized  by  a  big, 
eager  hand.  An  instant  later  the  owner  of  that  hand 
was  out  on  the  ground,  reading  the  missive  by  the  light 
of  a  forward  lamp. 

He  was  not  long  in  getting  to  the  end.  Thrusting 
the  precious  letter  into  his  overcoat  pocket,  he  sprang 
to  the  door  of  the  cab,  jerked  out  a  heavy  suitcase  and 
a  small  black  satchel,  which  he  deposited  unceremoni- 
ously on  the  sidewalk,  and  then  dug  down  into  his 
trousers'  pocket  for  a  handful  of  bills,  one  of  which 
he  pressed  into  the  small  boy's  hand.  Then,  turning  to 
the  driver,  the  tall,  impetuous  fare  clapped  another  into 
his  extended  palm. 


328  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

"  There  you  are,  genie ! "  he  exclaimed  exultantly, 
and,  grabbing  up  his  bags,  was  off  up  the  walk  as  fast 
as  his  long  legs  would  carry  him. 

"  What  was  that  he  called  me,  kid?  "  demanded  the 
driver  uneasily. 

"Janie." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

AT  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

THE  scraping,  laboured  sound  grew  nearer  and 
louder,  and  presently  there  was  added  the  thick, 
stertorous  breathing  of  the  climber  as  he  drew 
close  to  the  mouth  of  the  cave. 

Courtney  crept  farther  away  from  the  opening  and 
watched  with  narrow,  frowning  eyes  for  the  head  to 
appear  above  the  ledge.  He  held  the  revolver  in  his 
shaking  hand,  but  he  knew  he  was  not  going  to  shoot. 
He  thrilled  with  a  strange  sort  of  glee,  however,  at  the 
thought  of  the  ease  with  which  he  could  send  the  fool 
crashing  to  the  ground  far  below,  but  what  would  be 
the  use?  He  was  trapped. 

He  had  a  queer  and  strangely  ungrudging  respect 
for  the  courage  of  this  man  of  Uncle  Sam's,  this  man 
who  was  not  to  be  turned  back  or  daunted  by  the  pros- 
pect of  sudden  death  when  engaged  in  the  performance 
of  his  duty.  What  use  to  slay  this  single,  indomitable 
pursuer  when  nothing  was  to  be  gained  by  the  act? 
There  were  others  down  there  to  avenge  him, — to  starve 
him  out,  or  to  burn  him  out  if  needs  be.  Murder,  that's 
what  it  would  be,  and  they  would  hang  him  for  murder. 
If  he  shot  this  fellow  there  would  be  but  one  course  left 
open  to  him.  He  would  have  to  shoot  himself.  And  he 
loved  life  too  well  for  that.  Five,  even  ten  years  be- 
hind the  bars, — and  then  freedom  once  more.  But  the 
gallows, —  God,  no ! 

329 


330  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

He  stood  up  and  leaned  with  his  back  against  the 
wall,  bracing  his  legs  which  threatened  to  crumple  up 
under  him.  With  a  sort  of  craven  bravado,  he  inhaled 
deeply.  The  end  of  the  cigarette  created  a  passing 
but  none  the  less  comforting  glow  which  died  away 
almost  instantly.  A  jolly  brave  thing,  a  cigarette, — 
No  wonder  the  soldiers  smoked  them !  Nerve  steadying, 
— no  question  about  it. 

He  waited.  Once  he  thought  he  was  going  to  scream. 
Why  was  the  fellow  so  slow?  Surely  it  had  not  taken 
him  so  long  to  come  up  that  ladder  of  stone, — and  he 
was  the  pioneer,  he  had  cleared  the  slots  of  dirt  and 
sand,  he  had  made  the  hand  holds  safe,  he  had  torn  his 
finger-tips  digging  them  out, — what  made  the  fellow 
so  slow? 

At  last  he  made  out  a  vague,  slender  object  moving 
like  the  tentacle  of  an  octopus  above  the  ledge, — and 
then  the  bulky  head  and  shoulders  of  the  climber. 

"  I  surrender !  "  he  called  out.  "  I  give  up.  If  you 
had  waited  till  I  pulled  myself  together,  I  would  have 
come  down.  I'm  all  in.  I  surrender." 

The  man  scrambled  over  the  ledge  and  drew  himself 
erect.  His  figure  was  dimly  outlined  against  the  moon- 
lit sky.  He  came  a  few  steps  inside  the  cave  and 
stopped,  evidently  striving  to  pierce  the  darkness  with 
his  questing  eyes. 

Courtney  pushed  himself  away  from  the  supporting 
wall  and  advanced  slowly. 

"  Here's  my  gun,"  he  faltered,  and  the  weapon  clat- 
tered on  the  rocky  floor  at  his  feet.  "Don't  shoot! 
I  am  unarmed.  My  hands  are  up, — comrade." 

"  Stand  still,"  warned  the  other  hoarsely.  He  was 
breathing  heavily.  "  Don't  move !  " 


AT  QUILL'S  WINDOW  331 

Courtney  took  another  pull  at  the  cigarette  that 
hung  limply  between  his  sagging  lips.  He  could  be  as 
brave,  as  cool  as  the  other  fellow !  He  would  give  them 
something  to  talk  about  when  they  related  the  story 
of  his  capture.  He  would — 

Suddenly  the  man  lunged  forward.  ...  A  pair  of 
iron  arms  wrapped  themselves  about  his  waist.  He 
went  down  with  a  crash.  Even  as  the  cry  of  surprise 
and  indignation  rose  to  his  lips,  his  head  struck  and 
his  mind  became  a  blank. 

Slowly,  as  out  of  a  fog,  his  senses  came  back.  He 
was  hazily  aware  of  a  light  shining  in  his  eyes,  and  of 
a  dull  pain  somewhere.  Things  began  to  take  shape 
before  his  whirling  eyes.  He  strove  to  steady  them,  to 
concentrate  on  the  bright  thing  that  flitted  back  and 
forth  before  them.  At  last  the  blaze  became  stationary. 

Quite  close  at  hand  was  a  fire, — a  bright,  crackling 
fire  whose  flames  danced  merrily.  Where  was  he?  It 
was  not  like  any  other  fire  he  had  ever  seen  before.  .  .  . 
Then  he  saw  a  face.  It  gradually  fashioned  itself  out 
of  the  gloom  high  above  the  flames.  He  blinked  his 
eyes  and  stared.  Somehow  it  was  vaguely  familiar, 
that  face.  ...  He  lifted  his  head  and  peered  in- 
tently. Then  he  raised  himself  on  his  elbow,  all  the 
while  trying  to  fix  that  floating  face  in  his  mind. 

Suddenly  his  brain  cleared.  The  full  picture  was 
revealed:  A  man  standing  over  the  blazing  pile  of  box- 
wood, gazing  down  at  him  with  great,  unblinking  eyes. 
The  sloping  roof  of  the  cave,  half  lost  in  the  thin  cloud 
of  smoke,  almost  touched  the  crown  of  the  watcher's 
head, — and  this  watcher  was  in  the  garb  of  a  sailor. 

Caleb  Vick !    Young  Caleb  Vick ! 

For  a  long  time  the  two  looked  into  each  other's  eyes. 


332  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

Courtney's  wavering  and  uncertain,  Caleb's  fixed  and 
triumphant. 

"  Is — is  that  you,  Cale?  "  mumbled  the  former  won- 
deringly. 

Young  Vick  nodded  his  head  slowly. 

"  How  did  you  get  here?  "  asked  Thane,  sensing  peril 
in  those  boring,  unfaltering  eyes.  His  hand  went  out 
to  feel  for  the  revolver  he  had  dropped.  "  Where — 
What  has  become  of  the  man  that  jumped  on  me?  The 
detective." 

"  I  am  the  man,"  said  Cale  levelly. 

"  You?  What's  the  matter  with  you,  Cale?  This  is 
a  hell  of  a  way  to  treat  a  friend.  What  do  you  mean 
by  helping  these —  " 

"  Cut  that  out,"  snarled  Cale.  "  It  don't  go  with 
me.  Get  up!  You  dirty  cur, — get  up!" 

"My  God,  Cale, — have  you  gone  crazy?"  gasped 
Thane,  going  cold  to  the  marrow.  He  shot  a  swift, 
terrified  look  toward  the  mouth  of  the  cave. 

"  Get  up !  It  won't  do  you  any  good  to  yell.  No  one 
will  hear  you." 

Courtney  drew  himself  to  his  knees. 

"It  won't,  eh?  There's  a  gang  of  Secret  Service 
men  down  there.  They'll  blow  your  brains  out  if 
you —  " 

"  There  is  no  one  down  there,"  said  the  boy,  a 
crooked  smile  on  his  lips. 

"  I  tell  you  there  is,"  cried  the  other,  desperately. 
"  I  heard  them.  They  trailed  me  here.  They—  " 

"  I  guess  I  put  one  over  on  you,  Courtney,"  inter- 
rupted Cale,  his  voice  low  and  deadly.  "  I  am  the  fellow 
that  chased  you  here.  There's  nobody  else.  Oh,  I  know 
they're  looking  for  you, — but  they  don't  know  where 


AT  QUILL'S  WINDOW  333 

you  are.  Nobody  knows  but  me.  I  saw  you  sneaking 
across  that  lot  back  yonder.  I  was  down  at  the  ferry. 
I  saw — Rosabel — there."  His  voice  faltered.  He 
steadied  it  with  an  effort  before  going  on.  "  I  was  too 
late.  She  wrote  me.  Then  father  telegraphed  me. 
They  let  me  off.  I  came  as  soon  as  I  could.  I  ran  all 
the  way  from  Hawkins.  I  knew  what  had  happened. 
She  wrote  me.  But  I  thought  maybe  she'd  lose  her 
nerve, — or,  maybe  you  would  do  the  right  thing  by  her, 
and  save  her.  I  saw  her  down  there  on  the  dock.  You 
did  it.  You  got  her  into  trouble.  You —  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about,"  cried 
the  other.  "  What's  this  you  are  saying?  Have  you 
lost  your  mind,  Cale?  My  God,  boy, — I, — why,  what 
sort  of  a  beast  do  you  think  I  am?  I — I  adored  her. 
Come,  come,  Cale !  Calm  yourself  1  You  know  per- 
fectly well  how  fond  I  was  of  her.  I  couldn't  have  done 
anything  so  foul  as —  Why?  Cale,  she  was  nothing  but 
a  kid,  a  little  girl  to  me.  I —  " 

"  Yes, — that's  what  she  was, — a  kid,  just  a  poor 
little  kid.  She  trusted  you.  I  trusted  you.  We  all 
trusted  you.  And  now  she's — she's  dead.  My  sister! 
My  pretty  little  sister ! "  He  straightened  up  and 
threw  his  arm  across  his  eyes,  only  to  withdraw  it  in- 
stantly. "  God  damn  you!  Get  up!  Come  over  here! 
Here's  her  letter.  Read  it !  Read  it,  you  dirty  swine !  " 

He  reached  inside  his  blouse  and  drew  forth  a  folded 
bit  of  paper. 

"  I— I  don't  want  to  read  it,"  faltered  Thane,  shrink- 
ing back.  "  I  know  nothing  about  all  this  nonsense 
you  are —  " 

"  I  give  you  ten  seconds  to  do  what  I  tell  you," 
grated  Cale,  harshly.  "  If  you  don't  I'll  blow  your 


334  QUILL'S  WINDOW 

head  off."  He  levelled  the  revolver.  '*  It's  your  own 
gun, — so  I  guess  you  know  it's  loaded.  Come  on !  " 

Thane  crawled  to  the  fire. 

"  My  God, — you  wouldn't  kill  me,  Cale?  "  he  gasped, 
reaching  out  his  shaking  hand  for  the  letter. 

11  Read  it !  "  ordered  the  inexorable  voice. 

It  was  a  short  letter.  Courtney  took  it  in  as  a 
whole ;  the  dancing,  jumbled  web  of  words  that  raced 
before  his  glazed  eyes.  Parts  of  sentences,  a  word  here 
and  there,  his  own  name,  filtered  through  the  veil, — 
and  were  lost  in  the  chaos  of  his  own  thoughts. 

He  was  not  thinking  of  Rosabel's  letter.  If  he  could 
only  catch  Cale  off  his  guard, — just  for  a  second  or 
two !  A  swift  leap,  a  blow,  and — but  a  lightning  glance 
out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  killed  the  thought  even  as 
it  was  being  created.  Cale  would  not  be  off  his  guard. 
He  was  watching  like  a  hawk,  his  body  bent  slightly 
forward,  the  revolver  held  in  a  grip  of  steel. 

"  Well?  "  cried  Cale.    "  Have  you  read  it?  " 

"Yes,"  whispered  Courtney  through  his  stiff  lips. 
"  It's  not  true,  Cale, — it's  not  true !  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  true.  Rosie  would  not  lie  about  herself 
like  that.  No  girl  would.  Every  word  of  it  is  true." 
He  snatched  the  paper  from  Courtney's  palsied  hands 
and  cast  it  into  the  waning  fire.  "  No  one  shall  ever 
see  that  letter.  I  would  not  have  mother  know  what 
I  know  for  all  the  world.  She'll  never  know  about 
Rosie." 

Courtney  took  hope.  "  By  gad,  Cale,  that's  fine  of 
you.  I  promise  you,  on  my  word  of  honour,  no  one 
ever  shall  know.  I'll  keep  the  secret  with  you.  You —  " 

"  There  will  be  only  one  person  left  in  all  the  world 


AT  QUILL'S  WINDOW  335 

that  knows  about  Rosie,"  said  Cale  in  a  strangely  quiet 
tone. 

His  left  hand  went  out  swiftly.  The  fingers  clutched 
Courtney's  hair,  pushing  his  head  back.  Even  as  the 
wretch  opened  his  lips  to  squeal  for  mercy,  the  cold 
muzzle  of  the  weapon  was  jammed  against  the  flesh 
under  his  ear.  There  was  a  loud  explosion.  .  .  . 

Young  Cale  Vick  stood  for  a  long  time  looking  down 
at  the  inert  thing  at  his  feet.  Then  he  calmly  stooped 
over  and  placed  the  pistol  in  one  of  the  outstretched 
hands,  closing  the  stiff  fingers  over  it.  Scattering  the 
fire  with  his  feet,  he  trampled  out  what  was  left  of  the 
feeble  flames,  and  then  strode  to  the  mouth  of  the  cave. 
He  stood  rigid  for  a  long  time,  listening.  A  dog  was 
howling  mournfully  away  off  in  the  night ;  an  owl  was 
hooting  somewhere  in  the  trees  nearby.  He  turned  and 
began  the  descent,  and  there  was  neither  remorse  nor 
terror  in  his  soul. 

A  few  days  later  the  report  reached  Windomville  that 
a  farmer  up  the  river  had  seen  a  light  in  Quill's  Window 
the  night  that  Rosabel  Vick  was  found,  and  all  the 
superstitious  shook  their  heads  and  talked  of  ghosts. 


THE    END 


LMMRI  •-    .  '• 


A    000029987    5 


